


Served Cold

by marksmanfem



Series: Boondock Saints OC Arc [17]
Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Beating, Christmas, Crimes & Criminals, Drunkenness, F/M, Head Injury, Hospitals, Injury, Injury Recovery, Makeup, Makeup Sex, Mugging, Multi, Murphy Being an Asshole, Protective Connor, Realization, Relationship(s), Self-Defense, Separations, Sex, Sexual Content, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-04-30 18:56:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5175992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marksmanfem/pseuds/marksmanfem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've left McGinty's for the evening. She's still drunk, and the boys are still plotting revenge. They have no idea what they're in for. Direct follow-up to Served Hot. 17th in my Boondock Saints OC arc. Rated E for smut, language, and violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

I should probably be worried. Connor and Murphy haven’t said a word to me since we left McGinty’s, muttering back and forth in some guttural, impossible language I can’t even begin to identify, much less understand (I just know they had one of those “twin speak” languages when they were kids). I’m sure they’re plotting my demise in retaliation for the stunt I pulled back in the bar, but I’m still pretty buzzed right now, so I’m fairly cheerful as we three trudge through the snow.

We’re not too far from the subway station, as McGinty’s is only three or so blocks away, but the snow is making the going a bit slower than normal. The boys are just up ahead of me, and they seem pretty absorbed in their conversation as I wander along behind them. I’d like to think they're discussing something lovely but secretive, like a nice surprise instead of the vengeful kind, but I know them both much better than that now.

Something pokes me sharply in the foot, derailing my train of thought, and I stop to lean against a nearby wall. Balancing on one foot is tricky for me when I'm sober (even leaning against a wall), so I feel fairly accomplished when I manage to pull my boot off without toppling over. Peering inside, I frown when I don’t immediately spot anything, so I insert two fingers, digging around until the mystery item stabs me again. I tweeze my fingers together, pulling them out to reveal...a toothpick.

Oh, that is so nasty.

Hoping fervently the toothpick is Murphy’s from earlier (not that that isn’t still extremely gross, but at least I know whose mouth it came from), I shudder and flick it to the side before sliding my boot back on. As I straighten up, a flash of red catches my eyes. Across the street, a woman struggles through the snow in the opposite direction from us, passing in front of a narrow alleyway. Her bright cerise coat stands out cheerfully against the swirling white, reminding me strangely and suddenly of a fairy tale I read as a kid, and I'm still tipsy enough to wonder if she's going to visit her grandmother.

As if on cue, a man steps out from the alley, and I’m so engrossed in my drunken daydreaming that for a second I think it’s actually a wolf. I shake my head at my ridiculous imagination, hurrying to catch up with Connor and Murphy. They haven’t noticed my distraction and are almost a block ahead of me, barely visible through the swirling snow.

But I’m uneasy, whether from my Little Red Riding Hood fantasy or from seeing a woman walking by herself so late at night, and I glance back over to check on her progress. She’s gone, as is the man, and now I'm definitely anxious. I open my mouth to call out to Connor and Murphy when I see a flash of red in the alley and hear a muffled yell.

I'm across the street and leaping onto the sidewalk before I even realize I’ve moved from my side of the road. I have no clue what I'm doing, and the alcohol in my system is still muddling my thoughts. That’s probably why I'm not scared, even though I should be terrified and heading in the other direction. I’ve never been in a single real fight, but all I can think about is getting to that woman before something happens to her.

I have time to register a second man throwing her to the ground while the first man watches, and I know one of them is yelling something, but there's a strange buzzing sound filling my hearing, and then my thought process goes into panic mode. Without another attempt at thought, I leap onto the first man’s back, my hands flailing at his face as I scramble for purchase.

He obviously wasn't expecting to have to suddenly defend himself, and I manage to rake my nails down the side of his face, perilously close to his eye, before he gets a grip on one of my legs and slings me down onto a pile of random alley detritus. My head bounces, white stars bursting across my vision, and I can’t tell if my eyes are open or closed anymore. Pain explodes down my side as I slam onto something hard that cracks under the force of my landing, and I shriek as something like fire lances down my calf. 

Then everything seems to get really far away.

There’s nothing but muffled screaming and panicked thrashing all around me for what feels like a very long time, but it's like I'm experiencing it all through insulation. Then I’m freezing, and my eyes are definitely open, but all I can see is the blood streaming down someone’s face, and I can’t remember why I should care who he is. I know he’s bellowing at me; there’s specks of spittle flying from his mouth, and I can see every one of his rotten, decaying teeth inches from my face, but I can’t understand him, don’t understand anything that’s going on anymore until his hands close hard around my throat and my vision starts to gray along the edges.

My body remembers to struggle before I do, my hands beating uselessly against his arms, and while my thoughts are still scattered, they’re still frustratingly lucid. I don’t know whatever happened to the other woman, but from the sounds coming from nearby, she’s faring about as well as I am. I don’t know where Connor and Murphy are, but I hope they’ve noticed I’m not with them anymore. It feels like it’s been years that I’ve been in this alley, been burning with pain, burning with trying draw in a breath, burning, so cold and tired, and…

Then the hands are gone. I remember all at once that I need to actively do something about breathing, and while drawing in that first free breath is the single most painful experience of my life, I cherish every moment of it.

Gagging, choking, and sobbing, I start to roll to my side, but I’m brought up short by a world of pain that forces me onto my back again. My breath comes in short, hysterical gasps that send pain shooting across my ribs in jagged bolts. I’m close to panicking again; I can’t draw a deep breath, like I’m still suffocating, and I can’t...I can’t—

Warm, rough, infinitely gentle hands clasp my face, and a calm voice says, “Breathe, love. Stop panickin’ an’ breathe. Slow, steady. S’gonna hurt, but ye gotta breathe. Stay wit’me, now, open yer eyes an’ look at me so I know ye c’n hear me.”

It’s a struggle, but nowhere near the struggle of pulling in air, and I open my eyes to find Connor hovering over me, his hands pressed to my cheeks. I stop focusing on the panic and start focusing on the soothing rise and fall of Connor’s voice, matching my breathing to his as best I can, and after a couple of minutes, I’m something resembling calm.

“What—” I start to croak, but I can’t get the word out, and Connor hushes me. 

“Shouldn’t try to talk, jus’ take it easy. Are ye—”

His face blurs, and suddenly he’s talking to me from the other side of a long tunnel, which I don't understand because there aren’t any tunnels like that in this area. I don’t want him to go, but I’m tired, and sleep is--

“Hey! Come back, girl! Gotta stay awake! “

“No...don’t wanna…”

“There she is,” Connor mutters, and I can hear the relief in his voice. I force my eyes open and while Connor’s face is still right next to mine, the angle is odd, and I realize he’s holding me. “Murph, y’got t’other girl?”

“Aye, let’s go,” he replies tersely.

Every step Connor takes jostles me, every breath I take hurts, and I can’t stop the tears leaking from my eyes. “Connor…”

“S’gonna be alright, love, gonna get Roc to drive us t'hospital an’ get ye takin’ care of.” His voice is strained, and when I risk a glance at his face, I’m sorry I did. There are so many emotions warring across in his expression, I’m exhausted all over again just trying to decipher them.

“Lass, I know ye can’t talk much, but try to tell me a little of what happened. Ye gotta stay awake for me. Can y’do dat?”

“Saw...red riding...hood. Wolf...he took her...alley...had to...help.” I don’t know why he's asking, but I don't feel very mentally clear on much of anything right now. Maybe if I just close my eyes, I can sort everything out, and--

“Open yer eyes, girl, stay awake. Can't doze off yet. Murph, she ain’t talkin’ straight; see if ye c’n hurry ahead t’get Roc so--”

And then bright lights are blinding me, and Connor is shouting something at someone, and I crack my eyes open against the brilliance. I think...hospital? When did we get here? Then there's a streak of pain as someone touches my leg, and I moan against the horrible pressure.

“Where's the blood coming from?” someone asks.

All I hear is the word “leg” before black rushes in and engulfs me completely.


	2. 2

I dream, and it’s dark and full of blood and anger and death. Connor and Murphy are fighting something, something too enormous for me to completely grasp, and there’s nothing I can do to help. All the while there’s a deep, stern voice that’s telling me to let them go, that there’s things they need to do and I’m holding them back. I don’t understand anything except the more I chase them, the more it hurts, the farther away they get. And then the darkness swallows me again, comfortingly this time, and I sleep a wonderful, dreamless sleep.

I wake up, absolutely freezing and sore. My mouth is dry, and I cough. I immediately regret the movement as fire rips down my side. I don’t know what noise I made, but whatever it was is enough to get Connor to my side in an instant, firmly pressing my shoulders back the few inches I’ve leaned forward. 

“Open yer eyes an’ look at me, lass, breathe wit’ me. I’m right here, calm down.”

As it did in the alley, Connor’s voice calms me, and my breathing gradually slows and evens out. I don’t want to breathe deeply, small breaths are so much easier, but Connor is still coaxing me, holding my hand and squeezing encouragement, so I make the effort. Doesn’t seem worth it to me, but if he insists…

“S’posed t’tell the doctor when ye wake up,” Connor says, starting to pull away, but I clutch his fingers for all I’m worth. The dream is still haunting me, and I’m not willing to let him go yet. My eyes plead with him to stay, so he settles back into the chair that’s next to my hospital bed. 

“Water?” he asks, after a strangely awkward pause. I nod and take the cup he pours thankfully, sipping slowly, as I’m pretty sure gulping it the way I’d like to will result in more choking and gasping. I watch Connor silently while I drink, and he is acting weirdly uncomfortable. I mean, he’s not pulling away from my hand or anything, but he’s giving off a distinct air of “would rather be anywhere but here.”

Just as I’m about to risk my throat to ask him what’s going on, a woman in a white lab coat walks in and introduces herself as Dr. Sullivan. 

“Got yourself pretty banged up there, Ms. Stevens?” she asks, checking my pupils with her little pocket flashlight. I nod silently, following the tip of her pin back and forth with just my eyes, not my head.

“Well, you slept for a few hours, but you aren’t showing any more signs of concussion. We did a CT when you were first brought in, and it looked fairly normal, so you should be good to go as long as someone watches you for the next 24 hours just in case. Is that manageable?”

I hate the fact that I hesitate just then, but with the vibe I’m getting from Connor, I’m ashamed to admit that I glance at him for confirmation.

“Aye,” he answers Dr. Sullivan without looking at me. “We’ve got it. What’s the damage, Doc?”

“Ms. Stevens, your ribs are slightly bruised but not broken, and I don’t think they’re even damaged enough to tape. You’ll need to rest often but stay elevated like you are here. Breathing exercises, maybe some very mild cardio, but absolutely no strenuous activity. Your right calf needed stitches, but as long as you keep it clean, dry, and elevated, it should heal fine. I’ll expect you back in two weeks so I can look at it again and take the stitches out. Your throat is bruised and more than a little swollen, but nothing was crushed or seriously damaged, so you’ll be fine. The bruises will be pretty nasty, as will the ones on your face and elsewhere, but stick to cool drinks and ice for the first day. Take an anti-inflammatory for the first few days, as well, to help bring all your swelling down. I’m sending you home with some pretty good pain meds, so you are unconditionally banned from work for at least two weeks. I’ll have care instructions printed up in case you forget something.”

My head is starting to spin, and I know I’m going to forget most of what she said. She takes another look at me, then says to Connor, “We’re going to keep her for a few more hours, and if she’s well enough, we’ll probably discharge her around three or four this afternoon. I’ll give you a set of the instructions.”

She turns to me before she leaves and says, “We don’t have to go through what happened, as the other woman involved gave a fairly detailed account. You apparently hit your head pretty hard, so don’t be surprised if you don’t have the best memory of what happened last night. Take it easy, and don’t stress yourself. Memory loss of a traumatic event is normal. If you do lose some chunks of your day from here out, though, let me know. Sleep as much as you can, if you’re tired, but I expect you up and moving around before you leave today and for several minutes at a time a few times a day after this. You have to exercise your lungs, or you could develop complications.”

“She will,” Connor replies for me. Satisfied, the doctor leaves, closing the door behind her. I glance around the room, noticing for the first time that there are three other beds, all with accompanying privacy curtains, and that I’m the only one in the room.

“Wasn’t busy when we came in last night,” Connor says, noticing where I’m looking. “Guess it’s an off weekend.”

“What...about...other...girl?” I ask, working at keeping the pain from showing too much on my face. I didn’t need to bother, though, as Connor is avoiding looking at me.

“She was banged up, as well, but not near bad as you.” He pauses, then says, “I talked with her a bit. Roc came an’ sat wit’ ye fer a few minutes so I could go see her. Her name’s Carla, an’ she says thank ye, by t’way. She says ye came barrelin’ in outta nowhere an’ jumped on one o’th’men who was tryin’ t’mug her.”

I nod, as this pretty much matches up with the bits I remember. 

“Why...I jus’...Lass, didja not...t’ink...dat…” Connor trails off, his mouth set in a hard, angry line. His forehead is tight and furrowed, and his fists are clenched on his thighs. I don’t understand why he’s so angry, and I start to ask, but he shakes his head hard, twice, and stands. 

“Gotta...I gotta get some air, lass. Roc is waitin’ out front wit’ Murphy, I’ll send ‘im back.” 

He leaves me bewildered and shaken by his sudden departure, completely unsure of what to do. I’m so confused by Connor’s mysterious scene that when Rocco comes in a few minutes later, all I’ve thought to do is pretend to be asleep so I don’t have to put on any false cheerfulness or make Rocco feel like he has to try to lighten my mood. I hear my friend settle into the chair Connor vacated, and even though I’m faking and my thoughts are a jumbled, agitated snarl that should never allow for any kind of rest, I’m an exhausted, aching mess, and before long, sleep calls me back again.

After another long nap and a lunch consisting of a soup that resembles nothing so much as chicken water, I’m finally released late in the afternoon to the boys’ care. The sky is almost black outside as the discharge nurse repeats Dr. Sullivan’s instructions, giving a sheaf of papers to Connor. The nurse goes through the warning signs of concussion again with Connor, telling him he needs to wake me up every few hours over the next half day or so to make sure I’m okay. Then she turns to me.

"You're going to be sore and need a lot of help, so you may as well accept and enjoy it. Try to breathe normally to cut the risk of pneumonia. Slow, deep breathing exercises like I showed you, ice your ribs for the first few days. You can wash the cut day after tomorrow, twice a day with antibacterial soap and then over-the-counter antibiotic ointment, but no bandage; otherwise, keep it dry. Your throat will be swollen for a few days, so as little talking as possible and cool drinks, if you can. Take it easy and try not to do something quite so stupid again. You're lucky you got off as easy as you did."

Connor accepts the sheets of instructions and prescriptions with a word of thanks to the nurse (more than he’s said to me since he left my room), and helps me back into the wheelchair to be wheeled out front while I puzzle over the nurse's last couple of comments. 

Rocco is waiting for us, having been relieved of his companion duties so he could go get his car, and the two of them help me into the front seat. Murphy is firmly planted in the back, his face turned resolutely away from me, and I clamp my lips together to cease their trembling. Not once in all the hours I was in that room did he even try to come switch places with Connor.

Not that Connor was much comfort. 

I am exhausted and not looking forward to climbing the stairs in my apartment building. The one thing the boys’ place has over mine (aside from lack of rent) is that elevator. I mean, yeah, my ass and legs are in great shape from all the climbing, but sometimes I just don’t have the energy. To my surprise, Murphy solves the problem by sweeping me up bridal style and carrying me up the stairs without a word of complaint. And if he’s breathing any heavier or feels strained by the time we reach my floor, he certainly doesn’t let me know. 

Rocco stays long enough to see us in, promising to take care of my prescriptions in the morning. The hospital gave me enough meds for tonight and first thing tomorrow, but beyond that we’re going to have to find an open pharmacy. I’m going to have to call in sick, too, and I do not look forward to rehashing the story to Jen. I know she’ll understand, but I still don’t have all the details of the evening straight, as I don’t remember much after jumping on that man, and I didn’t get a replay from the other people present. 

Murphy deposits me in my bedroom, leaving me to undress myself as he retreats back down the hallway. I can hear muffled conversation, but it’s too quiet and probably too foreign for me to understand. I do my best to take my clothes off, but my ribs scream at me every time I breathe, much less try to raise my arms at all, and I can’t bend over far enough to unzip my boots.

As I’m perched, helpless and aching and absolutely miserable, on the edge of my bed, I'm suddenly bombarded with flashes from last night, like splices from a movie reel. So many scenes whizzing through my mind, and I can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t: a red coat in the snow, red blood on someone’s face, rotten fangs inches from my face, hands crushing, crushing, can’t process...fire, and crashing, and stars, and more red, and then the gray starts to blur into my vision again, and I can’t breathe, and--

A series of sharp, stabbing pains in my side jolts me from my flashback, and I’m gasping tiny, shallow breaths that are only adding to my panic. I try to calm down, to remember where I am and what the doctor said about breathing normally, but there isn't enough air in my lungs or oxygen in my brain, and I sway, horribly dizzy. I manage to just catch myself, sliding down the side of my bed to land in a heap on the floor instead of face-planting. 

I must’ve made more noise than I thought because Connor and Murphy appear in the doorway seconds later, their faces finally awash with the concern I've been looking for.

“What happened? How didja fall? Didja pull yer stitches?” It’s the first time Murphy’s spoken to me in hours, and I want to sob with relief just from the sound of his voice. He face is close to mine, looking into my eyes, and for a second I almost smile at him, I’m so glad to see him. Then I realize with a disappointed thump of my heart that he’s only so close because he’s checking for concussion. That must be what he and Connor were talking about in the kitchen.

“I pulled...a little...but should be okay...just...had flashback, and...got dizzy.” My voice comes out raspy and painful, and I see Murphy’s lips press thinner with every word. His eyes narrow, and the vein in Connor’s forehead is showing rather alarmingly. Without another word, they both help me slowly back up and somehow manage to get me into a t-shirt and some sweatpants with very minimal discomfort. 

When I’m finally settled fully into bed, propped so I’m sitting up against my mountain of pillows, Connor brings me a glass of water and various pills. To my surprise, he settles into a chair by my bedside, and Murphy takes up residence in my doorway, both of them watching me intently but without one bit of warmth. Normally it’s all I can do to make room for both of them in the bed, but now they seem to be barely able to be near it. 

Or me.

I can feel the pain pill starting to take effect after a few uncomfortably silent minutes, but I don’t want to fall asleep with them just staring at me like this. I don’t understand why they’re so distant, and I’m angry at myself for the tears sliding down my face.

“Connor...Murphy...what...why are you...not talking to me?”

I'm met with fiery blue gazes that tell me nothing but anger. They still don't speak a word, and even though I can feel the drugs numbing the aches and pulling me under, the tears continue unabated.

"Is it...are you...angry because...I don't understand."

"Ye don't understand?" Murphy snaps, his voice rising with every word. He stands straight, his posture rigid and furious, and I suck in a painful, shocked breath. "Of all th'shtupid...Ye don't fuckin' understand?!? How the fuck could ye not get--"

"Shut it, Murph, it's been a long day fer all of us, yeah? She's hurt an' drugged, an' she needs rest."

"I'm the fuck outta here." Murphy turns abruptly and leaves without a word to me. I’m left with Connor and the slam of my front door echoing around my otherwise silent apartment.

"I don't...Connor, what--“

"You're gonna have t'give him some time, lass. Gonna have t'give both of us some time, but Murph especially. Takes a lot t'get 'im like dis. We'll try t’talk about it in th'morning. Fer now, I'll stay wit' ye, but ye gotta rest, like t'doctor said. I'll wake ye up every few hours t'check on ye, an’ if yer feelin' up to it, we'll talk tomorrow."

I can't keep my eyes open anymore, and I'm afraid of the dreams I know are coming. I reach out for him as the room fades away. "Promise you'll stay?"

But if he replies or takes my hand, it’s lost in the heavy tide that washes over my head and drags me under.


	3. 3

I don't remember any of the times Connor wakes me in the night. I wake up the next morning, feeling groggy, heavy, and thoroughly miserable with pain. I also don't remember any of my dreams except that I was alone in all of them. Connor isn't in the room, so I figure he must've stepped out for something until my bleary gaze lands on the folded piece of paper resting on my bedside table.

Oh, God. This can't be good.

I force myself to reach out, ignoring the throbbing in my side as I pluck the note from the table. Unfolding it quickly, I scan over the brief message written in Connor's untidy scrawl before I lose my nerve. I read it again more thoroughly this time, then set it down beside me on the bed. I frown, not sure if the note is better or worse than I thought.

I know I said we'd talk today, but Murphy and I need more time to get our heads together, and you need some time to heal. We’ll check on you some, but Roc said he would stay with you a bit every day when he's not working, and Jen said she would check in on you as well. Rocco should get to your place around noon. Don't go anywhere, stay in bed. Do NOT try to go up or down the stairs. We'll talk to you soon. Connor

That's it. That's all I get. Before I have time to think on what the note is and isn't saying, there's a thump on my bedroom door.

"Are you decent?" Rocco's voice sounds hesitant, apparently afraid of walking in on me even when the boys aren't here. I look down at my makeshift pajamas and shrug to myself, which is a mistake. My left side feels like someone just pounded my ribs with a two by four, and I am only starting to realize how rough the next couple of weeks are going to be.

"Hun, can I come in? I got some stuff you're gonna want."

I manage to rasp a barely audible affirmative that hurts slightly less than shrugging, and Rocco nudges the door open with a foot since his hands are holding a tray burdened with various bottles and foodstuffs.

"Got yer meds on the way over, so you gotta start takin'em now. The doc gave you some pretty good pain shit for the first few days. Got you that ointment stuff to put on your leg tomorrow, and I brought you some water and not-hot soup. Where can I put this stuff?"

I gesture to the now-empty bedside table, and he deposits the tray with a flourish. I look at him quizzically, and Rocco starts opening bottles and handing me some pills. I take them without asking what's what, grimacing as the pills barely slide down my swollen throat, and accept the soup. He surveys me silently for a few moments while I eat before speaking again.

"Those pain pills are probably gonna knock you out, so you might as well stay in here," Rocco advises. I nod miserably in reply, not trusting my aching throat to make my words understandable. Frowning, I hand him the note and stare pointedly at him as he reads it. He looks back at me, a pained expression on his face, and sighs.

"They talked to me, yeah, but you three really need to talk it out yourselves. I don't want to be the monkey in the middle, y'know?"

I nod slowly, my frown fading from frustrated to tired and sad. It's not fair of me to involve him in whatever's going on between me and the boys. He's our friend, and he's obviously trying to help. I give him as much of a smile as I can muster and do my best to finish off the soup before I pass out again.

“Yer gettin’ one helluva shiner there. Those punks really did a number on ya, huh?”

This is news to me. I guess the damage wasn’t serious enough for the doctor to mention at the hospital. Rocco hands me a small mirror from my dresser, and sure enough a spectacular bruise is beginning to blossom around my left eye. No wonder it hurts to squint. There’s also a nasty scrape cross that cheekbone, and I wonder if the asshole from the alley was wearing a ring. It throbs unpleasantly when I press my fingertips to it, and I sigh dejectedly.

“Should’ve...seen...other guy?” I croak, and Rocco cracks a grin.

“Leave the jokes to me, wise guy; you need some more sleep,” he says, and figuring Rocco knows best, I promptly pass out again.

The next time I wake up, it's dark except for the lamp in the corner of the room, and I have to pee like no one's business. I flounder until I'm able to swing my legs around to the side of the bed without making anything throb or ache too badly. As I'm pondering the dilemma of how little fun the walk to the bathroom is going to be, I notice a tiny brass bell sitting on my bedside. Curious, I pick it up and give it a little shake, wondering who would put such a thing there and why. 

Though it gives a cheerful little jingle, I'm still none the wiser to its purpose until about a minute later when there's a firm tap at my bedroom door and Jen, my supervisor from work, peeks in.

"Hey, you're up. Need some help?" 

I nod gratefully, needing to pee too badly to be embarrassed at her seeing me in such a state. Jen steps into the room and helps me carefully from the bed. Twenty glorious minutes later, my bladder is relieved, I'm as clean as a bar of soap and a warm washcloth will allow, and I'm settled snugly on my couch wrapped in my afghan and eating oatmeal, of all things.

"My mom always said it helped people get better faster," she replies to my inquisitive glance before taking a drink from her coffee. "Your guy Murphy came in to see me at the office and told me you were hurt and wouldn't be able to come in to work for a couple of weeks, said he had a doctor's note for you. I asked if you needed anything, and he seemed rather eager to get help with what he called 't'ings girls gotta do.' Funny, I wouldn't have pegged him as the squeamish type." She raises her eyebrows at me as she takes another sip.

I exhale unhappily, failing to keep a forlorn look from crossing my face. "He's...not," I croak haltingly. "We're just...it's...complicated...I guess."

Jen shrugs, unfazed. "None of my nevermind, I suppose. I know how weird relationships are; you don't have to share anything you don't want to."

But I do want to. I like Jen a lot better than I did several months ago when she beat me out for the promotion I wanted, and the few things I have shared with her when we've hung out have never made it into the office gossip pool, so I feel like I can trust her. I have a longing for female company, especially now that my guys are acting so weird. I need more perspective on the situation, because I feel like I'm missing something really important. But I don't have enough vocal strength to share everything I want to explain right now, and though I have a wide range of pained and frustrated expressions, I don't think I'm quite expressive enough to get the whole story across without the right words.

Jen smiles, reading something of what I'm thinking on my face, and says, "We can talk when you're feeling more up to it. You look pretty beat up. I know you just woke up, but are you tired enough to go back to sleep anytime soon? I was in a car accident once, and I slept for the better part of a week afterwards." 

I think for a moment and realize that even though I've basically been asleep for the last day or so, I am in fact utterly bone-weary and exhausted. Jen helps me with another round of pills, takes me back to the bathroom for a glorious, almost-better-than-sex teeth brushing session, then helps me into my bed. 

She offers to stay until I fall asleep, but I wave her off, letting her know I'm not too far from being gone. 

She gazes down at me for a long moment before saying, "After seeing you tonight, I'm giving you off until after New Year's. I won't take no, and it won't come out of your personal vacation. You've got more than enough sick days to cover it. I'll clear it with the department head. I'm going to put my number by your bedside just in case. We can talk when you're feeling better. Murphy said to tell you to call him if you needed something in the middle of the night, but if you're uncomfortable calling him because things are weird with you guys, give me a ring. I don't live far."

I'm taken aback a little, but I wrench up half a smile and croak out a "thank you" as Jen jots her number on a slip of paper. She tucks it under the end of the phone, makes sure I don't need anything else for the night, and closes my bedroom door. I hear the front door shutting and locking behind her, and I stare morosely at my phone.

Never in a thousand years would I have imagined Connor and Murphy would abandon me when I obviously need them badly. I'm considering calling them when I realize the futility of my effort. Even if they are home, I wouldn't be able to say much that would be understandable over the phone.

As if my thoughts were some sort of signal, the phone begins to ring. I shuffle on the bed until I can just reach the receiver and answer with as much of a hello as I can strangle out.

"Jus' checkin' on ye, lass. Is Jen dere?"

Connor.

"Just...left."

A long silence, then, "A'right. Em....wanted t'see if y'need anyt'ing. Rocco will be by t'morra t'hang out an’ help y'take care of anyt'ing needs doing. We might be able t'stop by t'morra ev'nin' t'help ye t'bed."

"Not...sooner?" God, I miss my voice right now. 

"I...jus' can't, girl. We c'n try t'talk later when ye've got more of yer voice back, an' all, but I...we can't right now. Gotta go now. We'll try t'come see ye t'morra."

And then he hangs up.

Sleep comes with tears tonight.


	4. 4

The next couple of weeks come with lessening pain and increased vocal ability. By the end of the second week, I know I love Rocco like the brother I've never had, and I know he and I are utterly sick of each other. He makes sure I get out of bed and actually do the breathing exercises and mild cardio I’m supposed to, so of course, despite my deep and utter appreciation for his help, I can’t stand his face right now. I hate exercising when my ribs aren’t trying to suffocate me with pain.

I love my friend, I swear I do.

Jen has it a bit easier, as she comes to see me every other evening and I'm usually in a good mood because she's a welcome change from Rocco's jokes and motivational speeches. That, and she doesn’t make me do breathing exercises. 

I get three more calls from the boys (from Connor, specifically) and a painfully awkward ten minute visit where Connor sits in my arm chair while I sit completely by myself on the sofa and Murphy glowers from the doorway. We talk about absolutely nothing, and Connor does everything he can to avoid touching me while Murphy glares at a spot on the wall in front of him. As Connor gets up to leave, he moves as if to kiss me but stops himself, clears his throat, and says he'll talk to me soon. In this case, he apparently thinks four days later is soon.

Murphy never sits, never speaks, and never calls. And this was the first time I’ve seen him since McGinty’s.

As I ease off the pain pills, I stop feeling like I’m experiencing my life through a barrier of cotton. My emotions are a lot clearer, and I am beyond irritated at Connor and Murphy. I barely remember anything from that night and the one after except lots of pain, and I’d really like someone to fill in the gaps for me. The problem with that being the two people I know who can help me there won’t even talk to me long enough to tell me why they’re so obviously avoiding me.

With the absence of drugs, my nightmares come back with a vengeance. Violent nightmares, nightmares about little girls being chased through the woods, nightmares full of blood and garbage and dirty snow and screaming mouths full of rotten fangs.

And then there is the really bad one.

Sometime in the middle of week two, I wake up sobbing and automatically reach for the phone. I've dialed the boys' number and am listening to the third ring before I even realize what I've done. I hear Connor's hoarse, half asleep, " 'S better not be a prank call or ye'll fuckin' catch it. Watcha want?"

I'm still crying, my thoughts scrambled and a little hysterical, and for some reason the only thing I can think to do is say, "Sorry, wrong number," and hang up.

And that's when I completely lose it.

It’s the same dream from the night at the hospital, only this time the boys aren’t fighting so much as leaving. I'm chasing them, trying to apologize even though I don't know what I've done, and no matter how fast I run, they're always too far ahead of me. They never turn and look, never speak to me throughout the entire dream, but the whole time that same grave, stern voice speaks to me, telling me they can’t stay, that they never could stay with me, that they're meant for something so much more important than me. I chase them desperately, never quite able to catch up, and all the while the voice tells me how I was just the thought of a moment for Connor and Murphy, and now the moment has passed.

They're done with me.

The phone rings, shattering my remembrance of standing in the middle of an empty street, sobbing and begging them to come back while they ignore me as they walk away. I can't answer the phone, not when I can barely breathe for crying. Ignoring the phone, I work to slow my breathing, focusing on the ache that still throbs across my ribcage when I breathe too hard, and gradually bring my sobs down to mild, hiccupping sniffles. 

The phone stops around the eighth ring, but I don’t hear the answering machine click on in the other room. As it's somewhere around three or four in the morning (I'm not entirely sure, as I haven’t had time to replace my alarm clock after smashing it against the wall) I don't actually feel bad for not answering. I’m sure it was Connor, and I can’t handle that conversation yet. Besides, if he suddenly wants to talk to me that badly, he can leave a message or call me back.

I can move around pretty well on my own now, so I decide washing my face with some very cold water sounds like a great idea. A less good idea is glancing up from the sink faucet and catching my reflection in the mirror. My black eye has faded from dark purple to a light, mottled bluish-green, and the scrape across my cheekbone looks significantly less raw and nasty. I've lost weight since I haven't been eating much more than soup and oatmeal, and my skin looks pasty and a little jaundiced in the bathroom light. My good eye has a dark circle underneath, and my lips are chapped. Maybe I can get Rocco to bring me some lip balm.

I hate the way I feel right now. I am wretched and lonely and so damned angry at Connor and Murphy for putting me in a situation like this. I haven’t felt this abandoned since the afternoon of the storm when I was a teenager. The two people I’m supposed to be able to depend on the most when something rotten happens, and they just up and--

The phone rings again.

Dammit, I know it’s Connor. If I don't answer, he might come over, and if it's anything like his last visit, I don’t want to deal with that kind of tension. I answer the phone on the fifth ring, doing my best to not sound as horrible as I feel. 

"Lass, didja jus' call an' wrong number' me, den hang up?" Connor sounds more awake now, but very confused. 

I really don't want to have this conversation. It’s a major struggle to keep the anger and distress out of my voice when I finally answer.

"Yeah. I'm sorry about that. I woke up and didn't realize how late it was. Go back to sleep."

"Why'd ye call an' act so odd? An' what're ye doing up so late? T'was a nightmare, aye? Y'need me t'come over?" I can hear shuffling in the background, as if he’s already sliding his pants on. He sounds so concerned, so much more like the man I've been missing these last couple of weeks, I almost accept. 

Connor, I am so fucking pissed at you, but I need you so badly I almost don’t care anymore. Please talk to me, please help me figure this out. Even being pissed off is better when you’re here. I miss you. I love you. Please come over. 

Everything I want to say comes flooding into my mouth so hard I nearly choke on the words. Instead, like the stubborn idiot I am, I clear my throat before trying again and go a slightly different route.

"No, I've just been sleeping so much the last couple of weeks that I think I've finally caught up. I'm just going to take a bath and try to relax. You probably have to get up for work not long from now, so I should let you get back to sleep. Will I see you later?"

He hesitates, then replies, "Workin' some overtime after shift t'day. Won't get done til around nine-thirty or so. Mayhap we'll give ye a call, see if yer awake when we get home."

Seething internally, I accept this and say goodbye, knowing he won't call and they won't be coming over. I can't go back to sleep after that last dream, so I decide to make an honest woman of myself and take a bath after all, being careful to keep my calf out of the water. The stitches are due to come out in a couple of days, and I don't want to get the area wet.

The relaxation doesn't come as I'd hoped it would, and I find myself spending the rest of the day in an uncomfortable half-way between wide awake and utterly exhausted. Rocco stops by, but I’m in such a weird mood that he doesn’t press me to do my breathing exercises and just makes sure I have everything I need before taking off again.

By eleven o'clock that night, I give in to the knowledge that Connor isn’t going to call and decide to call him myself. I’m so incensed at myself for giving in that I don't even bother with hello.

"Did you get busy?" 

"Hi, yerself. How are ye fairin' t'day?"

"You'd know that if you'd come over like you said, Connor. You said we’d talk when my throat could handle it, and as you can tell, I’m talking just fine. I really don’t want to have the conversation we need to have over the phone. I have a lot of questions, and I’m pretty sure you know what most of them are. Why are you avoiding me, and why have I yet to hear from Murphy?"

"Know we need t'talk, lass, m'jus' not ready. An' Murph...well, Murph's dealin' wit’ t'ings t'only way he knows how, so he ain't ready t'talk yet, neither."

"So, he's getting into fights and beating the crap out of people over stupid, argumentative shit, and you're avoiding the problem, but why? Because you think it’ll just go away if we don’t talk about it? Are you sure you’re ever going to be ready to talk, Connor? I'm starting to wonder if I'm even going to see you guys again before New Year's." 

If then.

There's a long, loaded pause, and the tone of Connor's voice when he answers leaves no room for a reply. He speaks quietly and slowly, with an edge I've never heard before as he says, "I know very well dere's a problem, an’ I’m avoidin’ it at th’moment b’cause' I want t' handle t'ings calmly and rationally. I ain't ready t'talk t'ye 'bout it yet, not if ye want me t'keep m'temper. I've been tryin', lass, y'got no idea how hard I been tryin dese last coupla weeks. I know yer hurtin' in more dan jus’ yer body, an' I'd take every bit of it from ye if I could, but I can't see ye right now. I don't have th'control I need fer dat conversation wit' ye. Would say or do somethin' I have no intention of followin' through on, an' it's best t'jus leave some t'ings unsaid. Give us a bit more time t'get ourselves an' our words t'gether. I'll talk t'ye later." And he hangs up. 

What the hell is going on? I have never heard Connor speak that way in all the time I've known him. This man can work two eight hour shifts on the same day, down an ungodly amount of whiskey, and still have the self-control to go for multiple rounds with me afterwards. And now they're both so angry that they can't even see or speak to me for fear of saying or doing...what, exactly? And why the hell are they so mad at me?

My dream floats through my thoughts, but I shove it aside as hard as I can. Connor and Murphy have told me more than once they would always be there for me, and I can't even entertain the idea that they would break that promise. 

More than they already are. 

My hands are shaking a little, but all vestiges of my nightmare are gone, and all that’s left is seething, confused resentment. There’s no way I can sleep following that conversation, but after the day I had, I know I need to try. If I could just calm my thoughts down, try to think of something pleasant.

Of course, every pleasant thought that comes to mind right away involves Connor and Murphy, which only serves to piss me off further.

I lie awake for the rest of the night, trying my damnedest not to think about anything at all.


	5. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has been absolutely lovely this week, and I appreciate it more than ever. Bit of a personal loss today, so I wanted to do something to make somebody feel good. I'll be out of town next week, so the update after this one might take a little longer. Also, remember, I've been promising most of you in PMs that explanations will be forthcoming, and in full, but spread out over several chapters. So things aren't completely solved here. Thanks for keeping up with the story, and please let me know if you're still hooked. I could use some encouragement right now. Thanks

By the end of the third week, my black eye has become a nearly-faded, yellow-green eye without any swelling, my stitches are out, and I can raise my arms above my head with very little protest from my side. Most of my scrapes and bruises are healed, and I can eat solid foods again without feeling like someone's mixed in sandpaper. I am restless, and I am done with the absence of the twins in my life. I haven't heard from Connor since the nightmare, and I haven't heard from Murphy at all. Apparently, if I ever want to see them again, I'm going to have to force the issue.

Rocco, still assigned to caretaker duties, informs me he has to run some errands for work and will be out and about for a few hours. He makes me promise I'll stay put until he gets back. I don't like lying to my friend, but for God's sake, I am a grown woman who does not need a babysitter. My throat and voice were just fine and dandy over a week ago, so the twins are out of excuses. I am lonely, I am angry, and I am terrified to my bones that I've somehow lost them for good. And I still have no idea why.

This stops today.

I leave a note for Rocco and make my way to the subway. The whole (short) train ride, I rehearse in my head all the ways I’m going to berate them and let them know exactly why and how they are assholes and how I’m not taking any more of their neglect. 

I don’t bother to knock before I walk in the boys’ flat, as the door is in its usual kind-of-closed-but-really-just-hanging-on-by-a-hinge-and-a-half position. It’s never been quite right since that first night I spent with Connor. They aren’t here, but I figured they wouldn’t be home yet, so I curl up on one of the threadbare sofas to wait. I’m pretty tired from the lack of sleep lately, and I’m just starting to doze off when the phone rings.

I stare at it, nonplussed, not quite sure what I should do. In all the time I’ve known Connor and Murphy, I’ve been present for all of seven phone calls. One was their supervisor from the plant asking if one of them could cover someone’s shift. One was Rocco telling them to quit fucking around with me (literally) and get all our asses down to McGinty’s before he rounded up a posse to drag us there. The other five were Annabelle MacManus, or as she told me to call her, Ma.

So the odds are not exactly in my favor for the rest of this afternoon going peacefully. I think I’ll just let it ring.

And, boy, does it ever. There’s no answering machine, so the phone goes through three cycles of ten rings each, with about a minute or two in between each one. After the third set, the phone finally goes quiet again, and I wait.

Two minutes…

Three minutes…

Four minutes…Maybe that was all…

Five min—

Damn it.

“Son of a bitch.” There’s no heat behind my curse, though. Whoever is calling (probably Ma) is obviously not going to give up until someone answers. I’m pretty tired of listening to the stupid thing ring, so I gingerly lift the phone from the cradle.

Sure enough, at my hesitant, “Hello?” I’m greeted by Annabelle cackling and exhaling what I'm sure is smoke into the receiver, “Glad I caught ya, girl, just th’woman I wanted t’talk to.”

Yay.

“Listen, lass, y’gotta cut me demon spawn some slack an’ let ‘em explain theirselves t’ye.”

I need to do what, now?

I don’t even realize I’ve answered her out loud until she replies, “I know dey’re good-for-nothin’s who screw up everythin’ good in deir lives dat’s worth a damn an’ dey ain’t worth t’breath it takes to call deir Christ-forsaken names, but dey care ‘bout’ye. Only dey’re too stupid t’realize what idiots dey’re bein’ jus’ now.”

Her last comment startles a laugh out of me, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve actually laughed since that last night at McGinty’s. A faint, dull ache echoes across my ribcage, but it feels good to laugh again.

“So the demon spawn have talked to you about what happened?”

“Had a feelin’ dey’d done somethin’ stupid. Th’sun did rise in th’East, after all, so I called ‘em up. Told me close enough t’th’story fer me t’figure out th’rest. Can’t say as I woulda done somethin’ different dan what ye did if I were on me own, an th’good Lord knows someone needed t’stand up t’dem godless bastards in dat alley. But, girl, what in t’hell was goin’ through yer mind going up against two hardass criminals wit’out Connor an’ Murphy backin’ ye up? Why th’hell would ye be gom enough to leave yer fightin’ men behind when yer goin’ inta fight? T’ought y’had more sense, woman! An’ a pub full o'men down t’street who get more brawling in on a Monday ev'nin' dan y'got in yer whole life? Were ye thinkin’ a’tall? Tryin' t'get yerself killed? Girl, y'don't know nothin' 'bout street brawlin' nor any kinda fightin'.”

I open my mouth to snap out a reply, my face hot with indignation, when I realize she’s absolutely right. I know the right thing to do was to help that woman, but right and intelligent are not always synonymous. I have no experience fighting, very little in the way of physical skills (archery doesn’t tend to come in handy when you don’t happen to carry a bow and some arrows everywhere), and absolutely no knowledge of how to attack someone, much less defend myself. Saying I was tipsy is just an excuse. I should’ve called to the boys, gotten their attention. We were barely a block from McGinty’s; there was a whole bar full of men who wouldn’t have hesitated a moment to help. 

I really was an idiot. No wonder they’re pissed at me. However...

“They didn’t have to abandon me because I screwed up, though. I mean, if that’s what they’re angry about, they should’ve told me. I know how to apologize, I’ve done it a couple of times before. I can admit what I did was stupid, but why are they completely avoiding me? They know how I feel about being deserted, and if they’re pissed at me, they should’ve--”

“Lass, dey ain’t just angry at ye, dey’re scared shitless, an’ dey got no idea how to handle it.”

They’re what?

“What exactly are they scared of?” I am thoroughly lost. I came over the apartment, mad as hell and gearing for a fight, and now Annabelle has thrown a wrench in my gears.

“Ye don’t remember much, do ye, lass? Ye gotta give ‘em a chance t’give ye deir side o’th’story.”

I am so exasperated I nearly spit my answer into the phone. “I would love to, but they won’t talk to me! Do they not realize how stupid it is to be angry because someone won’t apologize for what the person doesn’t remember doing wrong when they won’t even give the person a chance to talk to them in the first place?!?”

“Deir hearts are in t’right places but deir pig heads are so far up deir arses dey have t’sit on t’trough t’eat from it. Can’t see past deir own damn problems t’realize y’need ‘em right now. Gotta make ‘em see ye. Don’t let ‘em ruin th’best t’ing dey got goin’ for ‘em.”

“Not to be disrespectful, because you know I never would be with you, but why are you so concerned?” I’m genuinely curious. I’ve spoken with Annabelle a handful of times, but I never figured her for the worrying type, especially not over some random woman her sons are seeing. I’m also not used to being fussed over, especially not by a mother-type person, so this is a first for me.

Hence why her answer floors me.

“Because I love me good-fer-nothin’ hell spawn, dey love you, an’ by extension dat means I care ‘bout ye an’ what happens t’ye. Can’t tell ye t’trouble ye’ve spared me, tamin’ dem boys s’much as ye have, an’ I’d be right put out if somethin’ t’were t’happen t’ye, ‘specially if yer fool enough t’cause it yerself.”

Well…alright, then.

I’m speechless for so long that eventually Annabelle bangs on the mouthpiece of her phone and rasps, “Ye still dere, girl?”

“Yeah—I mean, yes, ma’am. Sorry. Um…allergies. It’s uh…ahem. It’s dusty…here…in the boys’ flat. Had to blow my nose. Allergies.”

“In December?”

“Um…yes?”

The conversation doesn’t last much longer, as Annabelle got her point across quite well. She talks for another minute or so to make sure I’ve completely understood her, then she bows out of the conversation with a terse, “Don’t let dem fuckers know I’m okay wit’ dem fightin’. I spent deir whole lives pullin’ ‘em off each ot’er an’ damn near every man in t’village dey t’ought dey could take down. Can’t ruin all dat good work now!”

So, now, in addition to thinking of all the perfect words I’m going to use to tear the boys each a new one for abandoning me, I also have to think of the perfect words to apologize. I will literally never hear the end of this. I know I was angry with them, and I still am because you can’t just abandon someone who needs you, but dammit...now I can kind of see their side as well.

I hate being rational.

I fantasize for a moment about breaking into Connor’s secret, emergency whiskey stash (that he honestly thinks Murphy and I don’t know about) for a little liquid courage, but somehow alcohol doesn’t seem right, given its role in helping create this problem in the first place.

Two hours (more or less) later, after a lot of thinking and worrying, I finally decide to just brazen my apology and my issues with them straight out and see what happens. I long ago left the sofa (one of the springs was trying to dig a hole into my leg through my pants), and am nestled on Connor’s mattress under his and Murphy’s blankets. My eyes are already trained on the door, my nerves on red alert as I hear the faint groaning of the elevator starting up from the bottom floor. By the time I hear the gate open, my stomach is roiling, and I’m praying that I can manage to get through this conversation without throwing up.

Connor enters first, his head turned back toward Murphy as he sheds his coat. “Should give ‘er a call, yeah? Or we could…” He trails off, noticing the change in Murphy’s expression from weary to tense. Connor follows his brother’s line of sight to find me staring warily back at them, gnawing nervously on my thumbnail. I climb uncertainly to my feet under the weight of their silent, expressionless gazes and take a slow breath to steady myself.

“I…umm…hi.”

Silence. Stares.

“I came over here to…um…to talk to you both. Because we need to talk, and it keeps getting put off…and…um…and…Can you two seriously not with the staring?”

They move into the apartment, carefully hanging their coats and rosaries up. I guess they must’ve just come from church, but tonight isn’t a night they usually go to mass. Maybe confession? Connor drops into one of the chairs with a sigh, while Murphy remains standing, leaning against the cabinets with his arms and ankles crossed. Despite my plea, both sets of piercing, wintry eyes remain fixed decidedly on me, and the tension in the room thrums unpleasantly through my stomach. The already chill apartment seems more glacial than ever, even though my face is burning with too many emotions to name, and tendrils of despair begin creeping up my spine. It’s Connor who finally breaks their silence.

“Didn’t…ah…expect ye here, lass. How can we help ye?”

The words are light and neutral, but his tone is frostier than the apartment, and his expression isn’t any friendlier. Murphy continues to watch me, his eyes narrowed and his lips pressed into a thin, decidedly pissed off line. I’ve unconsciously started wringing my hands, and I’m really starting to rethink my plan of ambushing them into acknowledging me. If this is their acknowledgement, I don’t want it, and I’m better off without it. This was a huge mistake; I should've just given them time they needed. My anger, in its attempt to take a running leap at the source of its frustrations, gets tangled up in my insecurity and falls flat on its face.

I can feel a bitter, stinging burn starting at the back of my eyes, and I know I need to leave now if I don’t want them to see me break down. This is so not how I planned my attack.

“I…I shouldn’t have come. I didn’t think…I mean, I didn’t mean to…” I’m blinking rapidly now, and I have to pause to clear my throat to keep my voice from quavering. I maneuver quickly around Connor before he can say anything, snagging my coat and purse from the couch and reaching for the door. “I’m going; I’m sorry I came. You told me you needed time, and I ignored that. I should have listened to you. I’ll see you later.”

“Lass, didja—”

I don’t wait to hear the rest of the question or even acknowledge who’s talking. I close the door behind me and hurry through the piles of rubbish to the elevator, swiping at my eyes with the heel of my hand. I step onto the elevator, unwillingly letting out a quiet, miserable sob, and turn with my hand raised to close the gate. Strong fingers close almost painfully around my wrist, and my head snaps up to find Murphy's eyes burning down at me in the gloom, barely an inch between us.

“What—”

His expression stops my question in its tracks. He searches my face for a full minute, and I find that I can’t move a muscle under his intense scrutiny. His mouth works as if he’s tasting his words before letting them out. I know Murphy (at least, I thought I did), and the best thing I can probably do right now is wait for him to speak. I’m trembling, fighting and failing to keep my breathing under control. Sweat trickles down my scalp despite the dropping temperature, and I don’t know how much longer I can stand here before I break for the roof exit.

“What did ye come here t’say, girl?”

“I was angry with you both, I still am, because you are both...absolutely the worst assholes...but I’m…I’m sorry for what happened, for…for what I did. Not calling you and Connor. For not thinking. For jumping into a situation that dangerous without…with…without any idea…what to…I’m…sorry…” To my shame and horror, the tears come hot and fast, tangling my vocal cords into painful, burning knots until I’m sobbing incoherently and turning from Murphy to find somewhere, anywhere to run.

Before I can move away, Murphy yanks my wrist and crushes me into his arms, squeezing until there’s nothing left in the world but the two of us in this embrace. 

Oh, God, I’ve missed him so much. 

Murphy’s face is lost in my hair, his words muffled and tight.

“Ye can’t ever scare me like dat again. Never do dat t’me again, Grace. I can’t...I can’t take it. Know I’ve been an arse, an’ ye’ve no idea how sorry I am, but ye’ve gotta promise me, ye’ve gotta swear ye won’t ever make me feel like dat again. Ye acted so fuckin' shtupid, an' I can't lose ye, ‘specially not like dat."

The sound of him speaking my given name instead of the affectionate, nonspecific terms he usually uses makes the seriousness and stupidity of what I did hit home even more than Annabelle's words. My sobbing replies are stifled by his sweater, but I do my best to respond in agreeance even as I feel like every bit of moisture in my body is being wrung out through my tear ducts. All I can do is hold on just a little bit tighter.

Without warning, Murphy’s hands leave my back and tilt my soggy, tear-stained face to his, silencing my sobs in the only way that really works. His touch ignites a furious ball of urgency in the pit of my stomach, and there is nothing more I need in the world than to touch as much of him as I can as soon as possible. I throw my arms around his neck and leap against him desperately, staunchly ignoring the aches coursing through my muscles and hooking my ankles behind his back. He neatly catches my weight, balancing like a pro, his hands digging into the fabric of my jeans. He spins, staggering back to the other room, his lips never leaving mine. We bump into the table, scattering God knows what, and I wriggle to the floor, jerking my sweater over my head as Murphy does the same for himself.

Connor is behind me, turning me suddenly so I’m locked in his gaze. Every word I’ve ever known melts from my head at the frenzy of emotion blazing across his face.

“Heard ye out dere, Grace. We c’n work out t’details later; m’sorry fer everyt’in’, an’ I missed ye like ye wouldn’t fuckin’ believe.” His mouth claims mine in a kiss that jolts me to the center of my being. I can hear Murphy shedding clothes behind me, and then he's removing my camisole and fumbling with the clasps on my bra. I pull away from Connor long enough to rip his sweater over his head as Murphy starts in on my belt.

The next few seconds are a blur of flying clothes and gasped apologies and kisses that blend seamlessly until we're woven together on someone's mattress, and I can't tell who is doing what. All I know for certain is that I’m finally where I need to be, and my boys are with me again. I know everything’s not magically fixed, but I just need to feel them so badly right now, and Connor’s right.

We can work out the details later.


	6. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the last chapter I upload until the Tuesday after Thanksgiving. Thought I'd go ahead and give it up since people tend to have more time to read over the weekend. I know some of the tension has broken, but there's more to this story, so stick with me. Looking like somewhere between eleven and thirteen chapters total. Also, if it helps to keep things in perspective, we are the Christmas before "The" St. Patty's Day, so only three months or so before the first film. As always, thank you for reading, thank you for your kind reviews, favorites, and follows, and please keep them coming. This is a rough time, and they keep me going. You're all beautiful.

The next morning finds the three of us huddled together under layers of blankets, limbs still tangled every which way. There are hands on me in so many wonderful places, and I would be more than willing to lose myself in the simple pleasure of just lying here, touching as much of each them as I can, but I know what's coming, and I'd rather not drag this out any longer than we already have.

"So, do you two want to start now, or shall I spring for coffee, sugar, and grease to get this discussion started properly?"

Two resounding votes for coffee emerge from the blankets, and various articles of clothing are gathered into our blanketed refuge. A fair amount of groping ensues before the three of us are clothed enough to brave the arctic temperatures of their apartment.

Connor shuffles over to the boys' coats to search through his and Murphy's pockets for some smokes. As I'm about to slide my socks on, I glance next to me and see a strip of skin peeking out from between the hem of Murphy's t-shirt and the top of his jeans. I hesitate for a moment, then throw caution to the wind and aim my freezing toes right at it.

Quicker than I can process, Murphy spins around, catching my foot and jerking me toward him. He pounces forward, landing on his hands and knees above me, his face steely, and I gulp hard, rethinking my impulsive plan.

"Got a conversation t'have, love," Murphy growls down at me. He leans down until his nose is touching the tip of mine and murmurs against my mouth, "Let's finish dis after, yeah? Somethin' t'look forward to." He kisses the tip of my nose, a tiny hint of a smile flirting along his lips, and releases me from the cage of his body.

My breath comes out in a half-relieved, half-frustrated woosh. How does he move so fast? How did he even know I was coming?

"Heard th'mattress move on th'floor," he replies to my unspoken thought, his back turned once more as he pulls on his own socks.

"How did--. You know what? Nevermind, you're right. Later. Food first, then I’ll dissect the mysteries of your telepathic abilities. Freakin' mutant."

The walk to the diner is surprisingly pleasant. Though they are still a bit reserved, and my ribs are sore (mostly in a good way), I’m glad to be out, and I’m glad to be with them. We talk a bit, catching up on missed time. I know the serious stuff is coming, but God, I just missed them so much.

About a block before the diner, I can't help myself anymore, and I turn, catching both of them around the necks and pulling them to me in a hug.

"Uh, lass? Ye a'right dere? Food's just up ahead, y'don't have to eat us."

"I know, Connor; shut up and let me enjoy this. I know I deserve whatever dressing down you're both about to give me, and I know you’re going to take the one I give to you as well, and I know we have some serious relationship talking to do, but you have no idea how much I've missed you both, and I haven't had a real hug from either of you since that night. So leave me alone and let me hug you."

"T’ink I might know summat about it, “Murphy murmurs against my hair, inhaling deeply as his arms contract around my shoulders.

"Not sure I c'n leave y'alone an' hug ye at t'same time, but if ye insist," Connor contributes, his arms circling my waist. They hang on as long as I do until the growling of my stomach persuades me into breaking up the hug and resuming our walk.  
I settle into the booth, sitting across from Connor and Murphy rather than next to one or the other. Some of the easiness we regained overnight slips away as we wait for the food to arrive. Murphy leans back against the booth, taking long pulls from his coffee as if he might find the words he wants at the bottom of the cup. On his other side, Connor fiddles with sugar, his eyes glued to the rim of his cup as he shreds the paper packets into tinier and tinier bits.

I study them as we wait, surprised by how calm I am. I'm not worried anymore, despite the boys' uneasy postures. I know at least partly why they left me alone, and while I’m still pissed, I at least have a handle on my emotions. I have Connor and Murphy right here with me, and I know what I need to say.

The waitress arrives with massive plates of breakfast foodstuffs, and the boys dig in eagerly; anything to keep from having to talk, I suppose. Not a fan of breakfast myself, I dive happily into my cheeseburger.

"Makes no bloody sense, lass. Cheeseburger for breakfast," Connor grumbles. 

"Says the man who'll eat week-old, stale pizza at any time of the day," I return, sticking out a ketchupy tongue in his direction.

His eyes fixate on my tongue before I retract it, and he smirks. "Don't tempt me 'fore we've said our piece, girl. Can't be distractin' me wit' yer wanton ways. Twas you wanted dis conversation so bad."

Oh, for pity's sake.

The food disappears relatively quickly, and we unanimously decide to leave the diner and take a walk. I've been getting regular exercise thanks to Rocco (I love him, I swear), so maybe he won’t be as mad at me for skipping out on him yesterday if I can attest to at least willingly getting a workout in (sort of). There's a park not too far away, so we head in that direction. Much to my delight, Connor and Murphy walk on either side of me, each linking their fingers through mine and letting our hands swing together as we stroll down the sidewalk.

We find an empty picnic table under some winter-bare, skeletal trees, and I settle in across from them once more. It's almost Christmas now, so the temperature is a balmy forty-two degrees, but the sun is bright, and the snow has melted for now, so I can tolerate the weather as long as I keep my coat and scarf tucked in tightly.

After a couple of minutes of Connor and Murphy shuffling their feet under the table and pulling their hands in and out of their pockets, I finally sigh and say, "Look, guys, I get that what I did was stupid. I had a rather enlightening phone conversation with your mother yesterday, and I get how moronic me trying to take on those guys was. I have zero experience fighting, aside from my spectacular vomiting skills, and I honestly probably couldn't throw a decent punch to save my life."

I pause to gauge their expressions, and when I see they're listening attentively with no signs of anger on their faces, I continue.

"I was still a little drunk, but that's no excuse. I've lived in Boston long enough to have gotten some sort of self-defense skills, and short of that I should have just called for help. I don't know why I felt like I had to play the hero, but I can assure you I won't handle any situations like that the same way again.”

“However," and here I pause again, my own gaze turning steely, “You two abandoned me. You left me without one clue as to what was going on with you or what you were thinking or feeling. Were you just waiting for me to guess what was wrong? What if I hadn’t come over when I did today? What if I had, but I’d come later and missed your mother’s call? I had no idea what either of you were thinking, and I thought...I thought…”

I stop and breathe for a minute, steadying my voice and my words. “I’m not big on ultimatums. I’ll make you a deal instead. I will tell you right now I don't handle abandonment well, and I will not go through that again with you two. Period. Promise me you’ll at least tell me that you’re angry next time, why you’re angry, and that you need some space to sort your thoughts out, and I promise I will immediately look into learning how to handle myself in a fight, should the occasion ever arise.”

"Why t'hell wouldja need t'know how t'fight? Ye've got us!" Murphy lashes out, his eyebrows raised in outrage. "Whole problem was you runnin' in half-cocked, tryin' t'get yerself fuckin' killed! Didn't even t'ink what would happen t'yerself! D’ye not fuckin' care if ye live or die?" 

He's half-standing, his hands planted and gripping hard as he looms over the table toward me. I've never, ever seen Murphy this angry before; not in the middle of a bar fight, not when one of their coworkers, a mother of two named Mary Callahan, was hurt. He is utterly frightening in his intensity, although I know better than to actually think he’d do something to me. I realize, though, that I have no idea what he's going to do next.

Then Connor's hand is on his shoulder, and he's murmuring to Murphy in a harsh, guttural, oddly soothing language that I recognize as the one they were speaking as we were leaving McGinty’s. Murphy's breathing slows, and he gradually allows Connor to pull him back down to the cold stone bench. I glance at Connor, my eyes wide and heart racing, and he motions to Murphy's other side with a subtle tilt of his head.

I stand quickly and move to Murphy's other side, inwardly wincing at the weight of his narrowed gaze following me. I swing one leg over the bench, straddling it as I sit, and silently open my arms, keeping my eyes locked unwaveringly on his.

He glares for another beat and a half, then practically dives into my embrace, burying his face in my neck. One of my hands goes immediately to the back of his head and neck, stroking gently like I would to soothe a frightened child, and my other presses hard into his back as I squeeze him as tightly as I can manage. His arms tighten around my middle, hugging the breath from my lungs in a great whoosh of air, and I feel my ribcage creak in protest, but there’s no way I’m going to tell him to let me go. I meet Connor's eyes as I lay my cheek against Murphy's hair, and I’m met with a stormy gaze that sends my emotions reeling.

"After all we've talked about an' everyt'ing we've told ye, lass, how can ye still not know how deep we care for ye?" Connor asks. "Do ye not believe us when we tell ye we love ye?"

"I do--" I begin, but I’m cut off once more by Murphy squeezing my waist. I guess it's my turn to listen.

"Ye have a tendency t'not believe anyone when dey tell ye yer worth somethin'...maybe dat comes from yer parents bein' so wort'less 'bout raisin' ye, but it's about damn time ye stop thinkin' yer life don't mean anyt'in' t'de people around ye. I get it didn't occur t'ye dat night, but from here out ye need t'get somethin' straight, Grace.”

Connor pauses, making sure I’m truly listening before he continues. 

“Yer ours. Ye mean th'world t'us, an' yer worth so much more dan y'could ever understand. Ain't a price neither of us wouldn't pay t'keep ye safe. We'd protect ye wit' everyt'in we've got. T'ing is, y'got t'give us t'chance. Ye can't go runnin' straight inta situations like dat one, t'inking' ye c'n handle everyt'in'. Dat's how yer gonna get yerself killed, an' we couldn't handle it if... Grace, ye don't know how many times t'two of us near died dat night just hearin' ye scream like dat an' seein' ye under dat bastard, bleedin' an' battered an’ dyin’ right b’fore our eyes.” 

“Every time we came near ye after dat, all we could hear was ye screamin’, an’ all we could see was ya lyin’ on th’ground in dat alley. Couldn’t handle it. Know we did wrong, we shouldn’t have left ye like dat wit’ no explanation. It ain't dat we're blamin' ye fer what happened. It's more dat we can't stand how little ye t'ink o’yerself or yer own safety. Fer you t' t'row yerself into dat kinda mess wit'out even t'inkin' o'what t'would do t'me an’ Murph were somethin' t'happen t'ye..."

I can't think of a thing I could say that wouldn't be wildly inadequate, so I turn the hand resting on Murphy's back palm up, offering it to Connor, who links his fingers through mine. He squeezes hard, not a trace of a smile on his face, and Murphy takes the opportunity to crush my waist just a little more.

I can't help the squawk of discomfort that escapes me as my ribs are compressed a little more, and Connor immediately releases my hand in order to slap Murphy on the back of the head. Murphy, realizing his mistake, releases my waist and apologizes profusely, his hands fluttering nervously about my ribs.

I smile, relieved and genuinely amused, and press my cold hands to his oh-so warm cheeks, effectively settling him. "Where was all this concern three weeks ago when I was freshly injured?" I ask softly.

He hesitates, looking sincerely ashamed and regretful, then answers, "Buried under a lotta hurt, a lotta anger, and a hell of a lotta pride. 'Twas so mad at ye, girl, but I shoulda been there for ye. Did it all arseways again, didn’t I?"

It takes me a minute to realize he's referring back to when I was caught in the storm out in the park with Connor, and Murphy couldn't get to us.

"I can't say I wasn't terribly hurt, Murphy," I reply, and I feel him flinch under my hand. I still him with a gentle press from my fingers on his cheeks and continue quietly, "but we both screwed up, and I understand why you were angry. All I can say is let's neither of us let anything like this happen again, okay? I think I've paid for my stupidity, and as petty as it is of me, I’m glad you two missed me as much as I missed you."

Connor and Murphy both look highly relieved at my declaration. I can feel shivers beginning low in my belly and realize we've been sitting in the park long enough for the cold to seep in through my boots and under my jacket.

"Hot chocolate?" I ask hopefully, and then I think of something. "Unless you two have to be at work? I didn't even think. It's the middle of the day. Shouldn't you have been at work a long time ago?"

"Called in last night after ye fell asleep. Told th'boss ye needed us an' took off til after New Year's," Murphy replies, standing and holding his hand out to help me up. My expression must be more shocked than I realize because Murphy finally cracks a real smile. "We don't have a lot in th'way of bills, an' we've got plenty o’money left over for food. Got yer place fer heat if we just can't stand th'cold this season. Have more’n enough vacation saved up; we'll be fine, lass."

Oh. Well, then, in that case...

"So...I’ve had a bit of an idea just now," I venture as we set off towards my favorite coffee shop. "It’s almost Christmas, and I was thinking I’ve never done a real holiday before with a tree and decorations and the family meal and all. Do you think it's too late to throw one together?"

They both stop so abruptly that I'm nearly jerked off my feet. 

"Come again, lass? Ye've...never done Christmas before?" The look on Connor's face is comical in its extreme incredulity, and Murphy isn't far behind in the absolute shock written across his features.

"Well, I mean, my parents would give me some clothes, and my dad got a fake tree one year that I put some lights on, but I've told you what things were like. It was more common for them to be gone from a couple of weeks before Christmas until after New Year’s so they could make it to all their friends' parties and events than it was for them to be home decorating and celebrating with me. Why?"

 

“Next t’ing ye know, girl’s gonna say somethin’ daft like she never believed in Santy Claus,” Connor snorts, elbowing Murph. They grin at me expectantly, and I quickly smile to cover my embarrassment. Connor eyes me speculatively for a moment before speaking again.

"Wish it weren't too late t'get Ma here," Connor says, and of all the things I was expecting, this is definitely not in the top ten. "She knows how t't'row t'gether a holiday, dat woman. Should give her a call an' ask 'er what we can do in four days. Dere's only th'four of us, surely we could do summat proper in dat time. T'ink dere are any Christmas trees left in dat lot around th’corner from work?"

Connor is off and running, bouncing ideas off me and asking Murphy if he remembers this or that that Ma used to do when they were little. He even listen to suggestions from me, such as inviting Jen and maybe Doc and some of the less skeevy guys from McGinty's who don't seem to have any family to speak of.

After picking up hot chocolate for me and more coffee for the boys, we head back to their place, ostensibly for Connor to call Ma and get some ideas. I'm pretty worn out, so I opt for a nap on Murphy’s mattress. Murphy watches me from one of the sofas while Connor animatedly details several grandiose ideas I know we have no chance of pulling off in just a few days. He picks up the phone, saying he wants to get Ma’s opinion before he plans any further. I make sheep's eyes at Murphy from across the room until he finally smirks and stands, crossing the room to sit beside me, his back against the wall.

I wriggle carefully until my head is resting in his lap and I’m gazing up at him as he runs his fingers through my hair, spreading it out over his legs. We stare at each other for a long, silent moment until I can't stand it anymore.

"You know, from down here, I can really see up your nose."

Apparently, Murphy is not expecting this comment from me, and he's startled into the first genuine laugh I've heard from him since this whole mess began.

"I missed your smile, Murphy."

"Missed everythin' about ye, lass."

"Tell me about it. How bad did you get?"

"Broke some fucker's jaw dat made some remark 'bout women walkin' th’streets at night gettin' what dey deserve. Busted a few heads just ‘cause dey were bein’ assholes. An’ Daniel Walsh has a shoulder he's gotta be mindful of over th’next few weeks, as he mighta intimated somethin' 'bout bringin' ye flowers while ye was recuperatin'."

"Oh, no!" I say, feigning mild shock. "Not flowers! The worst of insults!"

He glares sternly down at me, but his fingers are still pulling gently through my hair, so I simply grin impishly up at him from my vantage point and gestured for him to continue.

"Insinuatin' I don't know how t'take care of me girl properly is an insult."

"But, Murphy," I point out cautiously, "you never called me, never willingly came to see me. I didn’t need flowers and all that other 'get well' claptrap. I needed you."

He closes his eyes tightly, his jaw clenched so hard I'm honestly concerned for his teeth, and I wonder if I've gone too far. I give him time, and his self-control wins over the words that threatened to spill out. He continues as if I hadn't commented, and I let it go.

"Few ot'er fights can't recall details of, as I was a bit plastered at t'time. After dat first week, Doc banned me from t'bar til ye were better, said I was gonna run off all his ot'er customers."

"Wait, that was all in the first week? Jesus, Murphy, how much were you drinking?"

"Lord's name," Connor chimes in from across the room. I don't reply, too caught up in the grim, anguished expression on Murphy's face.

"Had me hand on t'phone a t'ousand times a day t'call ye; caught meself walkin' out th'door to go see ye an’ had to let Connor drag me back."

"I wish you had come," I say quietly, my eyes searching his, but he shakes his head vehemently.

"Was glad Connor stopped me every time, even dough I cursed him soundly an' put up a helluva fight. Couldn't see ye in t'state I was in. Too angry. Wouldn't have done anyt'in' to ye, mind, but th'words I'd've said woulda been unforgivable. I love ye, an' I ain't gonna lose ye over me damned temper."

“Murphy, I...I think I get it, or at least I’m really trying to, but you need to understand that you nearly lost me anyway. How long did you think I could go without so much as a word from you?”

He shakes his head again, eyes closed, and lets out a shaking breath. His shoulders are stopped and rigid, trembling with tension. I have never seen him this fractured, and I give him a minute or so before I ask, “Is there more you're not telling me?”

He nods but doesn't speak or open his eyes.

“Do you need some time to think before you talk to me about it?” His eyes open to meet mine, and he nods gratefully. I think for a second before deciding I can give him this, at least.

My palm finds his cheek once more, drawing him down so that he twists and maneuvers himself atop me, his weight resting on his elbows as his lips meet mine. The kiss is long and tender, full of dark promises, uncompromised safety, and just a touch of hidden vulnerability: absolutely everything I missed about Murphy. As his kisses gradually become more insistent, Murphy's free hand that isn't supporting his weight begins to wander to areas of my anatomy that, even after last night's amazing encounter, steal my breath away in the form of increasingly loud moans.

An empty beer can abruptly whizzes past Murphy, grazing his ear, and his head jerks up with a curse.

"Ma says to keep it in yer fuckin' pants til she's off t'phone or find somewhere else t'do yer procreatin'," Connor laughs, dodging the boot that slams into the wall next to his head.

Yes, I’ve even missed this.

I fail to stifle a huge yawn, which draws Murphy's attention back to me before the fight can escalate. He stretches out on the mattress alongside me, tucking my head into his shoulder as I wrap one of my legs around his. I nudge him until he pulls the blanket over both of us and almost immediately begin to drift off.

A thought occurs to me just before I pass out, and I half-open my eyes, sleepily muttering, "But what about—" but I'm asleep before I can finish the thought.


	7. Chapter 7

After my nap, the rest of the afternoon is spent whittling down Connor's over-the-top schemes for the perfect Christmas to something a bit more manageable in the few days we have. I call Jen and ask if she already has plans for Christmas Eve, while Murphy is sent down to McGinty’s to invite Doc and Rocco, as well as a few of the other guys who don't have family they can go to. I tell him he needs to apologize to Doc for any damage he did, but he just smirks and says it's all part of the dangers of running a bar in an Irish neighborhood.

I refuse to spend the night in their unheated apartment, so Connor and I leave a note for Murphy to meet us at my place. We stop at a deli on the way and pick up some soup and sandwiches, and it's been such a great day so far that when Connor tries to lead us down to the subway, I ask him if we can walk instead.

He eyes me cautiously and says, "Ye sure yer up to it? Not too tired or achin'?"

"I'm better now than I have been in weeks," I grin, and link my free arm through his. I have to work not to swing the bag with the soups too enthusiastically as we stroll down the darkening streets.

After a few minutes, Connor ventures, "Been meaning t'ask ye 'bout somethin' ye mentioned when we were talkin’ back at th' park."

I glance at him but wait for him to continue rather than replying.

"Didja mean whatcha said 'bout learnin' t'take care o'yerself? Like self-defense classes or somethin’?"

"Well," I return just as cautiously, not sure where this topic is leading, "it makes sense, yeah? I'm going to do better about asking for help, but what if I'm somewhere without you guys, and I get jumped? Or I see someone in trouble? I'm not the fastest runner; I might not be able to get away or get to a phone or somewhere for help. I think it's about time I took some responsibility for my own safety. Besides," I add slyly as I put the key into my apartment building's main door, "I might have to keep defending Murphy from slutty, hot chicks, and I need to be able to take down those bitches with the something besides the strength of my intestinal tract."

This comment is greeted by an overly offended gasp, and I turn back to see Connor fake-staggering with his hand clutched to his chest. "Ye wouldn't defend ME? Yer own knight in shinin' armor? I'm hurt, lass, so hurt!"

"Well, Sir Gropes-a-Lot, to be fair, except for that group of high school girls cooing over you at the carnival, the ladies aren't exactly chasing after you, as far as I’ve seen," I reply innocently, and I turn back to start up the steps. I've made it exactly three steps when Connor's hand grasps my elbow, halting my progress. He reaches up, removes the bag of soups from my hand and places it on the ground floor landing, after which he immediately crowds into my space, backing me against the wall and blocking everything else out.

"Happens I prefer t'do me own chasin'," he growls, placing the tip of his nose on the crown of my head and inhaling deeply. His hands come down to cup the sides of my face as my breathing speeds up.

"Three steps is hardly chasing, Connor," I murmur into his sweater-clad chest. My fingers press hungrily into his hips, slipping into the belt loops of his jeans and pulling him even closer. 

"Ye couldn’t outrun me if ye tried, girl," he replies gruffly, tilting my lips up so he can brush his teasingly across mine once, twice. “T’challenge ain’t in t’chase, it’s in seein’ what kinds o’sounds and blushes I c’n pull outta ye b’fore makin’ ye come.” Instead of continuing, though, he pauses, his eyes serious as they hold mine.

"Know I told ye dis at th'park, but I feel like ye might need me t'repeat it. Ye mean th’world t’me, an’ I'm gonna make sure ye know it. Would kill me if somethin' else happened to ye. I love ye. Can’t tell ye enough, t’would seem.”

“Connor…”

“Aye, lass?” His mouth moves from my lips to my neck, and my reply dries up on my abruptly arid tongue.

“I...I need…”

“Tell me what ye need.”

“I...need you to get me up to my apartment as fast as safely possible before I melt down the stairs.”

He laughs, snagging the bags of food and handing them off to me. “What d’ye say, love, shall I carry ye piggy back or sweep ye off yer feet?”

“All considered, I’d say you’ve already done the latter, but I’m not opposed to you doing it again.”

Five minutes and a lot less clothing later, we’re ensconced warmly under the blankets on my bed. Connor is stretched above me, resting as much of his weight on his elbows as he can to spare my ribs. I’m not helping, as I have my legs wrapped as tightly around his hips as I can and am actively pulling him closer.

“Don’t wanna hurt ye,” he stammers against my shoulder as my nails sketch lightly over his lower back. His mouth hovers an inch above mine, his heated breath washing down over me at every little gasp I pull out of him. He pulls back, eliciting a protesting whine from me, and reaches behind himself. He captures both of my hands, bringing them up to his lips and placing tiny kisses and nips on each of my fingertips as I watch raptly.

Placing my left hand on his shoulder, he presses it firmly into place and glances at me sternly so I know not to move it. When he sees I’m going to play along, Connor turns his attention back to my right hand, licking and biting his way deliberately from the tip of my pinky to the inside of my wrist. The fingers of my other hand tighten when his teeth graze sharply over the sensitive skin, and I twist beneath him, seeking some sort of relief.

“Calm, girl. Gonna go slow wit’ye, do dis proper an’ take me time.”

“Isn’t Murphy going to--” My breath hitches as he latches onto the inside of my elbow, teeth and tongue working together in absolutely perfect harmony.

“Murph won’t be over fer a while yet,” Connor murmurs against the moist skin of my upper arm, in between scalding kisses. “Told him to stay gone fer a bit, gimme some time wit’ye jus’ t’two of us, an’ I’d do t’same fer him some time. Now, are ye gonna relax an’ enjoy yerself, or do I hafta persuade ye a bit more?”

I answer by jerking hard on his shoulder, catching him unawares, and pulling myself up to meet his lips with mine. I can’t get enough of his kisses, the perfect way his tongue moves with mine, the taste of him that I would know in my sleep, and for the next few minutes, all we do is make out like a couple of horny teenagers. 

“I missed you so much,” I whisper before I can stop myself. He pauses, his face buried in the crook of my neck, his hands frozen in mid-grope, and he sighs deeply enough to ruffle my hair. I cringe as he pulls away, and I open my mouth to apologize, to say anything that will save the moment I’m pretty sure I just murdered, but he silences me with a finger to my lips.

“I knew we’d need t’talk some more, but I was hopin’ t’save it fer after dis,” he says, rolling to his side next to me and propping up an elbow. He smiles, that beautiful, lopsided smile I love so much, softening the slight distance he’s put between us.

“I know ye said most o’what ye needed t’say dis mornin’, so it’s probably my turn anyway. First off, I t’ink self-defense o’some kind would be a grand idea fer ye. C’n look into it straight away, if ye like.”

I’m caught off-guard by this turn of the conversation, so I blurt out the first thing that comes into my head. “You wouldn’t want you or Murphy to teach me?”

His eyes crinkle in a mixture of amusement, sadness, and wryness. “Lass, what in t’world would make ye t’ink Murph or I could take a swing at ye, even just a practice one? Or dat we could watch t’other do t’same wit’ ye?”

I study his face, knowing he’s telling me the truth, but I also know Connor fairly well at this point, and I know he’s leaving something out. He wouldn’t stop a make-out session for this conversation alone, even as important as it is.

“What aren’t you telling me?” I ask.

“I need ye t’understand how bad it was, Grace. Ye know Murph an’ I’ve got no more experience at dis whole relationship t’ing dan you do, an’ we know we handled dis whole t’ing pretty rotten, but we was both so fuckin’ angry, an’ we didn’t want t’say or do somet’in’ rash t’make ye feel even worse.”

“And you couldn’t just tell me that?” I probe gently.

“Y’know what we’re like when we get in regular tempters. Lass, it was hard t’jus’ string a sentence t’gether around ye wit’out seein’...seein’ ye…”

He trails off, and I give him a minute to pull himself together before asking, “What did you see, Connor? Why was this so hard?”

“Ye don't remember?” he replies, his eyes searching my face. I shake my head, and he lets his breath out slowly before starting.

“Me an’ Murph had near made it t’th’subway, an’ we turned around t’ask ye somet’in’ an’ y’were gone, like ye’d vanished. Jus’ startin’ back t’see where ye’d got to an’ we hear ye scream. Don’t matter we’ve never heard ye scream b’fore. Knew it was you, an’ I don’t t’ink I’ve ever moved dat fast. Still couldn’t find ye til Murphy caught sight of dat woman’s red coat in t’alley. Saw the man beatin’ on ‘er, tryin’ t’take her purse an’ whatever else she had, an’ Murph tackled him straight away, bouncin’ dat fucker’s head off t’pavement. Dat’s when I saw ye--”

He cuts off, his jaw tightening, his eyes clenched shut against whatever he’s seeing. I'm shocked to my core to see him so emotional. His whole body tenses, trembling against me, and I can’t help but reach out for Connor, pulling his face into the crook of my neck and holding him as tightly as I can. And though Connor always has to be the strong one, never shows any weakness, always wants to be the older brother taking care of everyone, this time he lets me comfort him as he continues.

“He had ye down on t’ground, chokin’ ye. An’ he was hittin’ ye, Grace. Yer face was already bloody, an’ he had his hand back to go again. Dove straight at ‘im, poundin’ him as hard as I could inta th’ground. I near t’killed him, I beat him so hard. Prob’ly shoulda kept going, but…” he pauses, taking in slow, steady breaths for a moment, and I think that somehow he hasn’t told me the worst part yet.

“It had only been a few seconds, not even a minute since I got t’bastard off ye, an’ I turned back an’...an’...Christ in Heaven, girl, y’weren’t breathin’, and I t’ought ye were gone, an’ it was me fault fer losin’ ye an’ not bein’ dere when I shoulda. Lyin’ dere, bloody an’ still on th’ground. An’ Murph yellin’ an’ cursin’, tryin’ t’get over t’ye wit’ dat girl clingin’ to ‘im, screamin’ an’ wailin’, an’ I couldn’t t’ink straight, was tryin’ t’remember dat CPR shit, an’ den y’sucked in dat breath an’ tried t’roll over…”

He lifts his head slowly, his face so close to mine that, for the first time, I can see the deep shadows under his eyes and the painfully weary strain behind his raw, honest expression. “Never t’anked God more fer anyt’in’ in me life.”

I had no idea it got that bad in the alley; no wonder the two of them felt so out of control and angry. This must be what Murphy still couldn’t talk to me about. Silently offering my own prayer of thanks that I’m somehow still here with my boys, I pull Connor back to me. I kiss him softly at first, lightly brushing my lips over his as he trembles in my arms. I steadily become more insistent, bringing his attention back to me in the present, not the battered body lying in the alley in his memories.

He responds by degrees, first accepting my kisses, then returning them, then deepening them until we’re both breathless and panting and completely unable to stop. His hands sweep fire over me even as my fingers dig deeper into his flesh, and he moves above me once more.

“Connor,” I hiss, as his mouth finds my breast. “Inside me. Now.”

He never breaks the rhythm his tongue has taken on my nipple, never releases my fingers that have tangled with his when I wasn’t paying attention, but slides inside me as if by reflex, something as natural to both of us as breathing. I can feel the tremors in the muscles of his abdomen where his belly presses against me, and he raises his face to mine, his eyes shining in the dark.

Neither of us speaks as we move together, and he kisses me again and again until I can’t tell which of the places we’re joined is burning me up more. Even though it’s fairly cool in my apartment, I can feel the sweat slick between us, and I’m not sure how we don’t simply melt into my sheets.

Our pace is unhurried, not the norm for either of us, as we taste and explore and entwine, and though I can feel Connor’s unwavering desire with every deliberate thrust, he never speeds up or roughens his movements.

As his muscles start to tense, he releases my mouth, his face skimming against my cheek so I feel the scratch of his two-day-old stubble. His forehead comes to rest on mine, damp with exertion, though his breathing is surprisingly easy.

“Put yer arms around me neck, lass,” he says. “Wanna feel every part of ye against me when ye come.”

I only just get my arms up in time.

...

Hours later, when I’m in bed between both of my boys, I turn to Connor. He is awake, unlike Murphy, and he is watching me silently. He always falls asleep before me, so I know he’s still thinking about what he told me earlier. I want to reassure him, but at the same time, I know there’s more I need to say that’s just for him.

“Connor, we’re going to be okay. I want you to know that I’m here, and I have no plans on going anywhere or checking out any time soon. I’m almost better now, I really am mostly healed. But you have to understand something about what happened, as well,” I say quietly. He stretches his hand out to brush my hair from my forehead before turning his eyes back to mine.

“What's dat, lass?”

“I’m telling you this way because you were with me under the bridge during the storm, because you got me through a horrible moment I couldn’t have gotten through on my own. I’ve talked to Murphy, but you were the first one I told my story to, so I think you’ll understand better if I tell you like this.”

Even in the dark of my room, I can see the worry on his face, but he doesn't try to change or avoid the subject. “Go on; I’ll listen t’whatever y’need me to.”

“You...I know you were furious and terrified, Connor. I understand now that you've told me how horrible that night was for you both, for all of us, and I am trying so hard to forgive you two and move past this whole thing. But you have to know what you did to me. You left me at the time I literally needed you most. That came really close to erasing all the times you've been there for me, even taking care of me during the storm. There were a couple of moments where...God help me, Connor, if your explanation had been even slightly less serious or understandable...I would have left you. I can move past a lot of things. But this one is the worst.”

His lips are pressed tightly together, and he reaches hesitantly for me. I take his hand and place it on my cheek, closing my eyes at the comforting warmth of his touch. I don’t look up as I speak again, afraid of what I’ll see on his face.

“I can’t...no, I will not accept it if you ever do that to me again. I know I said no ultimatums, but this was the worst thing. This was...you cannot do this to me again.”

Connor’s hand tightens against my face before sliding around to my back and pulling me closer until I’m pressed against his chest. I'm not crying, thank God, but I will if he speaks so much as a word to me right now. Murphy grumbles in his sleep at my sudden absence and cuddles closer, his arm curling around my waist again.

Connor tucks my head under his chin and holds me silently for a long time. Just as I'm starting to drift off, he whispers, “Not ever again, Grace.”

And even though I’m safely ensconced in my sanctuary, the dream comes that night, as well.


	8. 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured, well...It's done; why not post it? I apologize only for the typos.

The next couple of days pass in a blur of busyness and errands as Connor directs me, Murphy, and Rocco in his grand plan for “th’perfect Christmas.” I give up telling him to stop putting so much pressure on himself after the first morning, as it’s obvious Connor is in his element. I’m glad I already have everyone’s’ presents squirreled away, as I’ve had absolutely no time to go out and shop for them.

He and Murphy work out some sort of schedule where one of them is out putting things together for the party and one of them is with me all the time now, which I'm sure is a huge relief to Rocco. On Christmas Eve day, Murphy takes me out to get some last minute things for the party, as well as to have some more time with just the two of us. 

We're having lunch at the Italian place Rocco took me for dessert, and I am thoroughly enjoying my angel hair and pesto when I glance up and catch Murphy watching me. I self-consciously swipe my mouth with a napkin, wondering if I have sauce on my face or something, and he offers me a rare, genuine half-smile. 

“Yer, fine, girl, got nothin’ on yer face. Just lookin’. Haven’t done enough of dat lately; wanna get some extra time in.”

I smile hesitantly, not sure what’s got him in this strange mood. “I’m not going anywhere, Murph. You’ve got plenty of time to look at me all you want.”

He nods absently, not answering, and he reaches across the table, his fingers brushing feather-light over the last vestiges of my black eye. I still under his touch as his hand moves over to my cheekbone. The cut is mostly healed, but I’m fairly certain I’m going to have at least a slight scar there.

He frowns as his fingers trace what’s left of the scab, and the corners of his eyes tighten a little.

“Scars are supposed to be sexy, right?” I ask, trying to lighten the rapidly plummeting mood. “And I can smack Connor if he tries to start calling me Scar Face, so that’s a win for me.”

Murphy shakes his head, murmuring, “He won’t ever joke wit’ ye about dis, lass; I wouldn’t try it. Not a t’ing about it either of us finds funny.”

“I know,” I sigh, taking his hand with both of mine and pressing his palm to my cheek. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have tried to make light of it. It’s just that, as pissed as I was at the both of you, I get it now, and I can’t stand to see that look on your face. You can stare at me all you want, you can feel me up all you want, and yes, you can take that statement however you’d like... But it’s Christmas, and according to you two, that’s supposed to be the happiest time of the year. So, as much as I know you want to brood over what happened and all the ways all of us screwed up and everything we could have done differently, can we please at least try to get our holly jollies on so it won’t be a party full of Grinches tonight?”

We sit like that for a while, I’m not sure how long, Murphy eyes locked on mine. I know he’s fighting hard against his natural tendency to ruminate over things rather than let them pass, and I let him work through his thoughts. Finally, his fingers flex against my cheek, and he pulls me closer to place a quick kiss on my lips. The darkness in his eyes recedes a little, and he offers me a subdued version of his earlier half-smile. 

“Wanna pack dat food up an’ walk a bit b’fore we finish up our errands?”

“With you? I’d walk five hundred miles with you, Murphy,” I beam, and he groans, falling back comically in his seat.

“Th’band is Scottish, lass, not Irish.”

“Yeah, but when I go out, well, I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the one that goes along with you,” I continue, as I signal to the waiter for a to-go container. “And when I get drunk, I’m gonna be the one who gets drunk next to you.”

Murphy shakes his head, but I can see the corner of his mouth turn up ever so slightly. After we pay and step outside, a thought occurs to me as I’m looping my scarf around my neck. 

“Murphy, I’ve always wondered...the next line in that song? What does ‘havering’ mean?”

He eyes me sideways, a smirk emerging from the gloom. “Means babblin’ or blatherin’, like a person who can’t stop talkin’, specially when dey’re drunk. Sound familiar?”

“Wow,” I murmur, glancing meaningfully at him as he links my arm through his. “It’s like the first part of that song was written from my point of view. Crazy.”

We’re about halfway down the block when Murphy finally takes the bait. “What ‘bout t’second an’ third parts?’

“You mean the parts about being lonely without the other person and dreaming about them and growing old with them?”

“Aye,” he replies, purposely looking straight ahead. I stop him with a tug on his arm just as we reach the end of the block, and stretch up to kiss him on the cheek. He finally turns to look at me, uncertainty lurking in his eyes, and I smile, looping my arms around his neck and stretching up to bump my forehead against his.

“Do you really have to ask, Murphy?”

We finish the last of Connor’s errands an hour or so later, and even though it’s only early afternoon, I am beat. I’m wondering if I have enough time to get a nap in before the party starts and also why Murphy hasn’t been complaining more today about being Connor’s errand boy. I turn my key in the lock and hold the door open for Murphy, who is laden down with shopping bags. I follow him in, kicking the door shut behind me, and drop my purse on the table by the door. I glance up, opening my mouth to call out to Connor, and I am stopped short, my breath catching in my throat.

So, that’s why Murphy took me out this morning.

My apartment is transformed into a scene out of a movie, with shining decorations and little white lights strung over every wall. There are stockings hanging from the windowsill in the living room, and my kitchen is draped with seasonally appropriate towels and things. There’s a wreath on the inside of my door, which strikes me as odd (aren’t they supposed to be on the outside?), but I figure Connor wanted to surprise me and didn’t want to give anything away before I came in. There’s even a small nativity scene set up on top of my television.

A tree stands at the far end of the living room next to the window, multicolored lights twinkling merrily against all the ornaments. There’s a deep red skirt underneath that practically begs for presents. And Connor is standing in the middle of everything, a tiny wrapped box in his hand.

Murphy sets his bags on the kitchen table and joins us in the living room. Connor’s face is lit up like a little kid’s on...well, Christmas.

“Wanted t’give ye yer present b’fore everyone got here,” he says. He and Murphy glance at each other, having one of those silent conversations, and I feel a strange, nervously excited ball forming in my stomach.

“But I...haven’t wrapped your presents yet,” I protest weakly. I'm not even sure why I'm protesting at all, except I have the feeling this moment is a little bigger than it seems on the surface. I take the box from Connor, glancing at each of them, but their faces show nothing but genuine, happy anticipation. 

“Here,” Connor says suddenly. He takes my elbow and leads me to the sofa. He and Murphy perch on either side of me, watching intently. I can’t help but smile as I unwrap the small box with shaking fingers. Inside the little cardboard container is a real jewelry box, green velvet. 

“Are you--” I start, but Connor interrupts.

“Just open it, Grace.”

I flip the lid open to reveal a silver ring with intricate Celtic knotwork woven onto the top. As I pull it out, I notice it actually has two bands, hammered and molded to form one, that continue on to weave a double knot of some sort. I hold the small, metal circle between my fingers, waiting for someone to tell me what to do. Murphy nudges Connor behind my back.

“Tis a double infinity knot, lass,” Connor says quietly. “Means what you’d think an infinity knot would, only...found a double, one from me an' one from Murph. We picked silver ‘cause we...mighta snooped in yer jewelry box, an’ we saw most everythin’ else in dere was silver. Dat’s how we got yer size, as well.” Connor takes the ring from me and holds it in front of my hands.

“Didn’t know which hand ye’d want, lass.”

I glance at him, then at Murphy, and for once both of them are just a little on edge, holding their breath as they wait for my answer. And there really is only one answer.

“Yes, you do, Connor.”

Rays of sun shining through a storm cloud.

Connor slips the ring on my left ring finger, stopping just short of my middle knuckle. Before I can ask, Murphy reaches over and slides the ring home.

“Tis not a proper proposal,” Murphy starts self-consciously, “as we can’t exactly both marry ye, but…”

“Shut up,” I whisper. My eyes grow hot, and I swallow hard. I don't know what's wrong with me; I should be happy. I am happy. 

So why aren't these tears of joy?

“Lass?”

I look up and see they’ve moved to their knees on the floor in front of me, sitting back on their heels and waiting for me to react. My eyes roam from one of them to the other, searching for some reason why I feel so torn all of a sudden.

“What does this mean?” I ask. “For the three of us?”

They share a look, and Murphy speaks this time. I get the feeling they’ve discussed this part beforehand, and I'm grateful they know me well enough to expect this question.

“Means we’re yours an’ yer ours fer as long as ye want us. Means if we lose our tempers, we’ll tell ye we need time b’fore we leave. Means we'll see to it yer safe an’ protected, even if we can’t always be the ones to t’do it, even if dat means makin’ sure ye c’n take care o’yerself. We’re in it til yer done wit’ us lass.”

“Wil ye have us even after us bein’ such arseholes?” Connor asks after a moment of hesitation, sensing something deeper in my silence.

There's no question about that answer, either.

“For as long as you’ll have me.”

If I weren’t so tired, there would probably be celebrations of some sort (most likely the clothing-optional sort), but the boys can see I’m utterly exhausted. I retire to my room to take a nap after promising Connor I won’t break his neck when he wakes me up to come start working on food for the party. He and Murphy offer to come join me in my nap, but I point out that if both (or either) of them join me, very little sleeping will get done, and I really need the rest.

I don’t have any trouble falling asleep, but I also don't have any more of the lovely painkillers to block my dreams, and this one is clear as day.

They’re gone. I am alone again, even in the middle of the city, with nothing and no one else except the voice. 

“Let them go,” it says, over and over. “Let them go.”

“I can’t, and I won’t.”

For years, decades, centuries, long after everyone else has passed away and moved on, it's only me and the voice. The argument never changes. And I slowly waste away from loneliness and despair until I, too, am only a voice.

“Let them go.”

“I won’t.”

Then I fall deeper asleep, a dark place where I’m warm and safe, and the dream voice can’t follow.


	9. 9

True to his word, Connor wakes me in plenty of time to start prepping food, and I stick to my side of the bargain as best I can (a punch to the sternum is not the same as breaking his neck). On his mother’s advice, Connor picked out pretty simple fair for the family style dinner, and I put him to work with my vegetable peeler getting potatoes ready (less chance of him cutting himself again) for boiling and mashing, and I give Murphy the supreme honor of washing and cutting up green beans and carrots for roasting.

I listen to them snark at each other about their (nonexistent) culinary skills in the background while I prep the tiny Cornish game hens we’d decided wouldn’t be too much work. They’re ready to pop in the oven before I know it, so I set a timer to remind me to turn them in about twenty minutes. After checking the boys’ (lack) of progress, I find myself with a little free time before I have to do anything else. Rocco is bringing a cake from the Italian place where we go for dessert, Jen is bringing the bread, Doc is bringing the booze, and I know a couple of the guys from McGinty’s that Murphy invited are bring a side dish and a dessert. They claim to be whizzes in the kitchen, so we’ll see. 

I snag a cookie from the tray Connor arranged while I was asleep, and I have to concede that while he might be hopeless in the kitchen, he can definitely plan a party. I munch contentedly on my snickerdoodle as I plop on the couch, waiting for the timer to go off. Something shines on my finger as I lift the cookie, and I glance at my hand, remembering the ring. 

How could I forget?

It twinkles happily, catching both the white lights from the walls and the colored ones from the tree, and I smile to myself. It really is the perfect gift, especially in light of everything that’s happened this month. But…

But I can’t shake that dream. That’s why I wasn’t overwhelmed with happiness when they gave it to me and made their promises. That’s why I had no huge declaration to give them in return. They promised to stay as long as I want them, but none of us know what’s going to happen tomorrow, next week, a month, a year from now. I want to believe this is going to last, and I know they meant every word they said to me, but…

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the gloom. I was the one telling Murphy earlier not to be a Grinch, and here I am brooding over a stupid dream. I glance at my ring again, and on impulse I pull it off and look on the inside of the band. Sure enough, there’s a tiny inscription where the bands meet on one side: “For thee.”

“Cold feet already, lass?” I look up to see Murphy offering me a mug. “S’ hot,” he warns, stepping around the end of the couch and over my legs to settle down beside me.

“It’s beautiful,” I smile, taking a cautious sip of hot chocolate as Murphy slips the ring back on my other hand. “Is there a meaning behind the old fashioned language of the inscription?”

“S’from our family prayer,” Murphy replies, still holding my left hand. He tilts it back and forth, watching the ring catch the different lights from around the room. “Our Da was already gone when we were born, an’ he sent Ma a letter, saying he didn’t know when he’d see us and dat she should say it over us ev’ry night til we was old enough t’recite ourselves. Will tell it to ye in full some night, if ye remind me.”

He glances up at me, a small, intimate smile curling his lips. “Ring looks good on ye, love.” I can’t help but return his smile, and I set the mug carefully on a coaster before turning and tackling Murphy flat on his back on the couch.

“Oy!” Connor gripes from the kitchen, “I ain’t in here workin’ me fingers t’de bone so’s you two can screw around in dere. Get yer arses in here an’ gimme hand!”

He’s lucky the timer goes off for the chicken not too long after, or I probably would have hurt his feelings by ignoring him.

About ten minutes before the birds are done, people start showing up with various dishes and bottles, and pretty soon the table is definitely earning it’s keep under the weight of all the food. Connor and Murphy’s boss from the plant brings his wife, Helen, and while they don’t bring anything for dinner, they bring a beautiful beef roast as a hostess gift. I’m confused for a moment u til I remember where he works. Two guys who we see at McGinty’s fairly frequently, another set of brothers, bring a surprisingly delicious seafood stuffing, as well as a couple of desserts that prove to be utterly hypnotic. Apparently, they weren’t falsely bragging about their kitchen skills.

Doc heads straight for me as soon as he sets down his bottles, and he wraps me in a hug that is surprisingly strong, considering how old he is.

“M...missed ye at t-t-t’bar, lass. Ye gotta c-c-c-come back an’ keep dese arseholes in line f-fer me. Liable t’set t’place on fire wit’outcha.”

Jen brings a variety of rolls from a fantastic bakery down the street, and as I go to help her remove her coat, I find that Rocco has beaten me to it, grinning and blushing like a little kid when Jen smiles and thanks him. 

Huh. I know they met when they were both helping me out, but I didn’t realize Rocco was that fond of her. Interesting.

There are more people than I think have ever been in my apartment at once, and I know my poor little kitchen table won’t be able to hold everyone, but Connor solves the problem by bringing out some folding chairs and having everyone gather around the coffee table in the living room to eat. The kitchen table serves as a buffet, and soon enough, everyone is sitting around talking, eating, and laughing, just like all those holiday movies I grew up watching.

It’s a heady experience, one that I thoroughly enjoy although I’m not used to it at all. After dinner, I’m standing off to the side of the Christmas tree, watching everyone chatter and snack on the leftovers when Connor moves to join me.

“Crowd too much for ye, lass? C’n tell everyone t’scram, if y’like.”

“I’m fine, Connor,” I smile, taking a sip of my eggnog. “Just needed a little breathing room. By the way, I feel like a jerk, but the brothers from McGinty’s? I can’t remember their names for anything.”

“T’first time I met t’bald one dat’s far too fond of overalls, swear t’Christ he told me t’call him ‘T-Duff.’”

I snort my eggnog and spend a couple of seconds regaining my composure. “The fuck he did!”

Connor laughs and takes my empty cup from me before I do some damage. “On me honor he did, although he likely doesn’t remember, as he was t’ree sheets t’da wind. His brother smacked him across dat bald pate o’his an’ told me t’call ‘em both Duffy.”

I never know when Connor is having me on. “Both of them?”

“T’each deir own, I s’pose,” he replies, setting my cup down on a side table and gathering me in his arms. His chest immediately warms my back, and I snuggle a little closer. Connor’s chin settles on my shoulder, and he places a small kiss on my cheek.

“You put together a wonderful Christmas, Connor. Thank you. For everything.”

I watch Murphy laughing with the Duffy brothers as Jen tells some office story that probably involves me embarrassing myself. She’s gesturing wildly and giggling, and Rocco is staring at her, blushing and grinning. Doc is asleep in my armchair, passed out under the influence of a lot of seafood stuffing and about a third of one of the bottles of whiskey that he brought. Connor and Murphy’s boss and his wife are standing together in the kitchen, talking quietly. As they step back into the living room to join everyone, Connor calls out from behind me.

“Oy, bossman, wait! Look up!”

Jim and Helen both freeze in their tracks, their eyes wide with surprise as they glance up. Helen laughs suddenly as she spots the sprig of yellow-green leaves and white berries. She grabs her husband’s shoulders and pulls him down to her for a loud, smacking kiss. 

Should’ve known Connor wouldn’t let Christmas go by without mistletoe.

Doc leaves not too long after that, with the Duffy boys volunteering to make sure he gets home okay. Jim and Helen say their goodbyes a little while later, and Jen asks if she can share a cab with them, as they live in the same direction. I hide a smile at Rocco’s poorly concealed disappointment that he and Jen never got caught under the mistletoe together.

I manage to get the food put away while I talk the guys into at least gathering the dishes and dumping them in the sink. I can soak them overnight and wash them all tomorrow. Rocco has the genius idea of putting on a Christmas movie, so Murphy makes some popcorn while I change into sweatpants and a t-shirt. 

An hour later finds Rocco slumped back in my armchair, his snores rivaling Connor’s, who is sprawled over the other end of my couch. I’m half asleep on top of Murphy, straddling his lap with my back firmly against his chest. At some point, I pulled a blanket over the two of us, and I’m pretty sure he’s passed out beneath me. 

I’m not really watching the movie anymore, having become fascinated with the lines of the Celtic cross tattoo on Murphy’s forearm. I hold my left hand up next to his right forearm, my eyes roaming sleepily back and forth from the different knotwork on his arm and my ring. I start to trace the lines of the cross, my fingers weaving back and forth across his skin. I must’ve partially hypnotized myself because I am thoroughly startled when Murphy turns his arm over to grasp my hand.

“Love th’feel o’yer hands on me. Missed dat more d’n almost anyt’in’ else.”

I smile in spite of my brief shock. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Sorry.”

“Never apologize fer touchin’ me. Said I’m yers, an’ I meant it. Touch s’much as ye want.”

I turn his arm back over and place a finger lightly in the center of the cross, tracing outwards from that point, looping around and around as I follow the intricate lines. “When did you get this one? Is there a story behind it like there was with the saints on your necks?”

“Wouldn’t call th’saint tattoos a story so much as a lesson in gettin’ ink dat was more easily hidden from Ma ’fore we moved outta her house.” Murphy shifts underneath me, getting more comfortable before resting his free hand on my ribcage just below my breast. “Not hurtin’ ye, am I?”

“Not even a little, and don’t change the subject.”

“A’right, but it ain't much of a story. Con an’ I came over ‘bout five or six years ago, jus’ after we turned nineteen. Had hitched a ride on a cargo ship comin’ across, worked fer our passage. Didn’t know anyone when we got here ‘cept the sailors we came over wit’. Homesick like hell, but don’t ye ever tell me ma I said dat.”

I shake my head in agreement, waiting for him to go on as I continue skimming the lines of his cross. His free hand begins to stroke gently over the material of my thin t-shirt, and I sigh contentedly as he continues.

“Wanted t’get somet’in’ t’remind us o’home, an’wanted it t’be somet’in’ grand, as we didn’t have t’worry ‘bout Ma gettin’ upset. Didn’t have a clue where t’go, but if dere’s two t’ings sailors are good at knowin’ or findin’, it’s good tattoo places an’ good drink. By th’end of our firs’ night in t’states, we had dese crosses, our first drink at McGinty’s, an’ a set up in a free place t’stay.”

“You mean the flat where you are now?” I ask, turning slightly to look at him. “You’ve been there for that long?”

“Aye, what did ye t’ink, we were homeless or somet’in’ an’ stumbled on it?” He’s amused, though, and his words have no sting.

“To be honest, I never thought about it before. I don't know why. What did you guys do for heat in the winter before you started staying here?”

“Blankets, clothes, sharin’ a bed if we hafta. Ain't like we didn’t come inta t’world sharin’ a space anyways.”

“Mmmm,” I reply absently as his free hand strokes a particularly sensitive spot between my breasts. “Murphy, why did you and Connor come over to the States, anyway?”

“Story fer another time, lass. Here, lemme borra me hand back fer a bit.” He gently slides his trapped arm from under mine and slips it under the blanket to join his other hand in its languid explorations that move not so subtly under my t-shirt. When he reaches my breasts, he begins to knead and massage them through my sports bra, the only kind I’ve been able to wear the last few weeks. I'm glad for it now, as underwire would be quite in the way. I pull the blanket up to my chin, just in case Rocco wakes up suddenly, and I sigh serenely.

God, this man is good with his hands.

“Want to move to the bedroom?” I murmur, resting my head back against his shoulder. I don't really want to move, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop at just a little petting under the blankets. 

“Nah,” he mumbles, sliding his fingers around to stroke deliberately across my nipples, making my back arch involuntarily as I barely stifle my cry. “Pretty damn comf’terble here. Y’need to move?”

Need to move? There are a lot of things I need right now in this moment, and moving is not anywhere close to the top of that list. And then I’m hit with the realization of what Murphy is really asking.

“Here? You want to do this right here?” I squeak, torn between how much I’ve missed Murphy’s hands on me and how much I do not want Rocco to wake up to a peep show. “With Rocco right there?” I mean, it's not like we've never had sex on my sofa, but seriously, Rocco is right there.

“Guess y’better not make too much noise so’s we don’t wake ‘im up,” Murphy replies softly, his hands gliding downward. I'm momentarily paralyzed with breathless excitement, feeling reckless as Murphy unties the drawstring on the waistband of my sweats. Before I can talk myself out of it, I lift my hips enough for him to remove both my pants and underwear, and I wait a moment as I feel his hands moving between us. Then he’s pulling me back down, shifting his hips, and with a firm tug of his hands, he’s inside me, and I realize I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

“Relax, girl, gotta go slow an’ careful; can't be all wild'n crazy, wakin’ th’sleepin’ beauties in here. Lay back against me an’ settle yer head on m’shoulder like ye were just now.”

Every movement presses Murphy against my insides at such an exotic, alien angle. I’m already having trouble keeping quiet, but I do as he says and lay back against him. True to his word, Murphy’s hips press leisurely against the backs of my thighs at a thoroughly unhurried pace as if we have all the time in the world, and I find myself melting into him. 

His hands move under the blanket, first guiding one of my hands to the back of his neck (“Love feelin’ dat tug when ye get ahold of m’hair,” he whispers into my ear), and then guiding my other hand to right above where we’re joined (“Surely ye don’t expect me t’do all t’work,” is his explanation). His own hands slide up under my shirt to push my bra out of his way as he continues his lazy thrusts.

“Murphy?”

His voice is soft, low, and steady, with no hint of the strain I’m working to keep out of mine. “Aye, lass? Somet’in’ I c’n do fer ye?”

“I need you to...oh, God...Murphy, I...need you to keep talking to me...I need to...hear your voice.”

“Missed ye, girl.” His voice is velvet, his breath steamy against my ear. His hips glide a smooth, mind-numbingly easy pace as he continues. “Missed th’feel o’ye pressed hot against me on every cold mornin’. Missed th’taste o’ye being th’last t’ing I knew ‘fore I fell asleep.”

My fingers slip downwards and circle lazily around my swollen bundle of nerves as I let his words surround me. His tongue darts out, tracing a hot, wet line up the side of my neck before nipping my earlobe sharply. I don’t know how, but I just manage to not cry out, and he times his deepest thrust inwards to coincide with his nails dragging lightly just underneath my breasts.

“Circle yer hips fer me, girl, just...aye, jus’ like...fuck. Take…take it easy, easy now.” He groans faintly against my neck, his fingers clenching tightly against my chest for a moment before relaxing and continuing their exploration.

“Missed hearin’ all the ridiculous, gorgeous noises I c’n get ye t’make if I really put me mind to it. Missed yer terrible singin’ in yer shower when ye t’ink no one c’n hear ye. Missed th’smell o’yer soap an’ t’sight o’ye all stretched out under me an’ over me...fuck, girl, yer roastin’ me alive here! Missed yer heat clenched all around me as ye come, an’ yer freezin’ feet wakin’ me up. Missed dat look in yer eyes when I’ve pissed ye off right’n’proper. An’ yer laugh...ahhh, fuck, lass, ye gotta slow down fer me a little...”

His thrusts are ragged now, his rhythm slipping as his muscles begin to tense, and his hands drop from my breasts to my hips, holding me securely against him as he grinds upwards. My fingers tighten in the hair at the back of his neck and my back arches, pushing my hips down as hard as I can. I force my other hand to slow down, my fingers to keep time with Murphy's strokes.

“Every day wanted t’come over jus’ t’talk t’ye an’ listen t’yer gripes about how no one else does deir job right. Wanted see ye, wanted…t’take ye every fuckin’ way I could t’ink of. Wanted t’take ye in yer kitchen again, fuck ye against the counter til y’couldn’t breathe fer all yer screamin’. Take ye up on that shower offer, be inside ye, fillin, ye while all dat hot water pours over ye, makin’ ye as hot an’ wet on t’outside as I make ye on th’inside...wanted t’hear ye whimperin’, pleadin’ so gorgeous like y’do, beggin’ me t’go harder, t’feel ye shakin’ all around me cock when ye come. Wanted t’make ye come til there wasn't anyt’in’ left in ye but me, wanted t’--”

“Oh...oh, God...Murphy, kiss me, I can’t--”

His mouth slants over mine just in time to quiet me, and I shake against him, my body pulled taut as a bowstring as I come around him. His breathing comes in short, jagged bursts as he shudders beneath me, one hand holding my hips tight against his as the other cradles my face. 

When our tremors have mostly subsided, Murphy nudges me to turn until I’m straddling him the other way around, and he deftly maneuvers us up and to my bedroom, somehow with the blanket still mostly covering us. We make quick work of the rest of our clothes, sliding under my comforter and against each other until I’m on my side, fitted perfectly against his chest, my head resting on his bicep.

The only light in the room leaks in from the bathroom down the hallway, and Murphy’s eyes roam restlessly over me in the gloom. The darkness saps the color from his irises, leaving his eyes black pools that I want nothing more than sink into. His fingers stroke tenderly through my hair, tangling in the thickest part at the nape of my neck and stilling there.

I lay my fingertips on the edge of his jaw, curious about the expression on his face.

“What’s that look for Murphy? Where are you right now?” I’m whispering, though I hardly know why, and without hesitation, Murphy answers in kind.

“Th’place I missed the most. Wanted ye t’always know...I...I love ye. An’ of everythin’ I missed ‘bout ye, bein’ away from ye every night when I knew...I knew y’were havin’ nightmares again. T’ing I missed th’most was ye fallin’ asleep in me arms, knowin’ I had ye safe an’ ye’d be dere when I woke up.”

I think about that for several minutes, letting his words float around in my head. He closes his eyes, resting his forehead against mine. I can feel the tension slowly leech from his body as we lay together. I'm not even sure he’s still awake when I finally tell him, “I’ll always be here when you wake up, as long as you don’t leave me behind.”

Murphy pulls me a little closer, tucking his head on top of mine, and murmurs sleepily, “Wouldn’t dream of leavin’ ye again, Grace.” Then his breathing steadies and his body finally relaxes completely against mine.

But it still takes me a long time to fall asleep.


	10. 10

…..ch10…..

I’m woken at dawn the next morning by Murphy crawling over me, murmuring something about mass, and then again a couple of hours later by Connor and Murphy snuggling against me, their skin freezing against mine. There’s some sleepy but intense groping from each side before the boys fall back asleep.

Much to my disgust, however, I am now fully awake. I hate waking up early.

I’m still muzzy from lack of sleep (I think I passed out about an hour or so before Murphy got up), so I decide to go out for a walk to clear my head. I leave a note for the guys and manage to dress and slip out of the apartment without waking anyone.

As I stroll through the freshly fallen snow, I let my mind drift over every little thought and worry that’s plagued me the last few weeks. Connor and Murphy and I have definitely gotten a few things straight; I should feel more secure with us, and I think on most levels I do. 

It’s just those stupid dreams.

I don’t think I’m going prophetic or anything. I’m fairly certain it’s just my deep seated fear of abandonment (can’t imagine where that comes from, or what sparked it recently) that’s making my brain act so irrationally. I know Connor and Murphy are completely sincere with the promises they made. I pause on the sidewalk, my gaze dropping to the ring on my left hand. They meant every word they said, and I know they were genuine when they apologized.

But if this month has taught me anything, it's that you don’t see the curveballs coming. Would I still feel this way if I hadn’t had those dreams? Or if Connor and Murphy hadn't pulled their disappearing act? Except I did, and they did, and now I’m doubting the future of our whole relationship because of it.

Goddammit.

Realizing I’m just thinking in frustrating circles and my head is even further from clear than when I woke up, I turn and start back to my place, following my footprints in the snow. It’s only when I’m halfway between the third and fourth flights of steps that I realize it’s been five years to the day since the last time I spoke to my parents.

I guess this is a good week for revelations.

When I get back to my apartment, everyone is still asleep, so I take some time to freshen up in the bathroom while it’s still free and toss together a simple breakfast casserole to stick in the oven. While I’m waiting for it to finish, I remember I still need to wrap everyone’s presents. I’m not sure I see the point, as they’ll just be ripping the paper off within a couple of hours, but I know Connor at least will appreciate the gesture, so that’s reason enough for me.

After I stash the presents under the tree, I start some coffee and dive in to washing the dishes from last night. I'm tired of being the only one awake, and if coffee and clattering dishes don’t wake the guys up, not much will.

Murphy is up first, and he heads straight for the coffee pot. Connor and Rocco follow not long after, and soon we’re all sitting around the living room watching A Christmas Story and eating breakfast. I finish my casserole not long after the kid nearly shoots his eye out, but I’m not paying attention; I’ve never really liked this movie, and I’m too excited about the guys opening their gifts. 

“Okay, so how does this part work? Do you guys open them all at once, or do you take turns and show them off?” I’m bouncing in my seat a little, and Connor laughs at my enthusiasm. I dive off the couch and grab the presents, handing one to each of them. Rocco looks surprised as I hand him his package, then pleased, then he abruptly smacks his forehead.

“Totally forgot, hun, gotcha somethin’, too.” He retrieves a box I hadn’t noticed from the table by my front door. Connor and Murphy immediately start in on him, teasing and whining about where their presents are, but before they can really get started he shuts them down with a, “Knock it off; I gotcha a nice bottle of scotch. Doc helped me order it; it’s some really good shit, and it’ll get here by New Year’s.” This shuts them up pretty effectively, as they weren’t actually expecting anything from Rocco.

“Okay, everybody’s got a present now! Open, open!” 

There’s general ruckus and confusion as paper goes flying, and I watch as Connor’s face lights up first.

“Th’Eiger Sanction! I haven’t seen dis one yet! T’ank ye, lass!”

I knew I shouldn’t have been worried; it’s Clint Eastwood, after all. “The guy at the movie store recommended it. Said there’s lots of stunts and action and plotting, so I thought it was right up your alley. And he told me Eastwood did most of his own stunts for the movie, so if you liked that sort of thing this would be the perfect movie for you.”

Rocco is just as excited over his copy of Tombstone, and he hugs me around the neck before ripping into the shrink wrap. He’s been on a little bit of a cowboy kick lately, even going so far as to buy some cowboy style boots (which, I will admit, actually suit him), so I figured this movie would be perfect. As he and Connor squabble over who gets to watch their movie first, I turn to Murphy, who is glancing from his present to me. A smirk is dangerously close to erupting across his face.

“Track two, aye, lass? Ye sure ye wanted me t’open dis in front of everybody?” he asks, holding the CD up so the title catches the light. Bon Jovi’s New Jersey Special Edition hangs in the air between us, and my face heats up as I grin.

“If it was the whole present, I probably wouldn’t have, but the actual outfit is in my closet, so...y’know, whenever you feel like putting the song on, let me know so I can...get dressed.”

Murphy leans over, somehow nearly setting me on fire with nothing more than a brush of his lips to my cheek and a quick wink.

“Gotta open yer present from Roc, or ye’ll hurt his feelings,” he reminds me. 

“Well, quit distracting me,” I laugh. I tear off the paper and open the box to find…“An alarm clock?”

“Yeah, I saw you didn’t have one anymore. Found the old one smashed in the trash can when I was here one day not too long after you got back from the hospital, so I figured you needed a new one,” Roc calls from near the front door where he’s digging through his coat pockets for something. Connor and Murphy turn questioning looks my way, and it hits me suddenly that because of everything that happened that night at McGinty’s, they never got the full story of my behavior in the bar that night or what had happened after I left them at the diner the night before.

“Um...I, uh. I had a...the night you guys pissed me off at the diner, the night before everything happen, I...um. After Rocco walked me home and left, I...oh, look, the movie’s starting!”

I make my escape as Connor and Murphy glance at each other, completely baffled, and start in on the dishes I abandoned once everyone was up and eating. My face is absolutely flaming, and I bite my lip, fighting a powerful, giddy urge to start giggling. I’m not quite ready to share that story with them; honestly, I probably would’ve done my best to never share it with them. I know that somehow they will find a way to make it come back and bite me in the ass. I need to avoid them if at all possible, because they can definitely get me to talk if we’re on our own. Maybe they won’t push too hard as long as Rocco is here and I stay in the same room as--

“Hey, guys, I’m outta smokes. You got any?”

My head snaps up, and Connor and Murphy look straight at me. 

“Nah, Roc. How ‘bout I give ye a tenner, an’ ye get us some,” Connor drawls, his face intensely and deliberately blank as his eyes burn holes into mine. 

Rocco, who is still patting down his pockets, nods and replies, “Sure thing. Gonna go to that convenience store that’s attached to the Chinese take-out place. Only one that’s open today, I think. You guys want anything?”

“Beer, smokes,” Murphy says, handing Rocco some bills from his wallet. “Maybe some take-out for lunch, aye? Eggrolls, noodles, all dat shit.”

“I’m gonna be a while if you want me to get all that,” Rocco says, glancing up. He looks from me, standing stricken at the sink, frantically shaking my head at him, to Connor and Murphy, who are both staring at me like cats watching a mouse. It takes a second, but he finally catches on to the tension stringing across the room between me and the boys.

“I’ll be back after a while.” He scuttles out as quickly as he can, shrugging on his coat and slamming the door behind him.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

“Ah...Now, what was dat ye were jus’ sayin’, lass?” Murphy asks, a suspiciously innocent expression pasted across his face. He strolls towards me, overly cool, hands tucked into the pocket of his jeans. I have a sudden, ridiculous mental image of a jaguar stalking its prey through the jungle.

“Izzit hot in here?” Murphy asks. “Maybe ye got t’heat on too high, lass; yer pretty red in th’face. Come t’think of it,” he adds, a devilish gleam in his eyes, “‘M pretty warm m’self. Should get more comfterble.” And with that declaration, he pulls his t-shirt over his head, tossing it carelessly down as he continues to saunter my way. 

My eyes are immediately fastened to his bare torso, following the light dusting of dark hair down his sculpted stomach to where the trail disappears beneath denim. I swallow hard, my fingers suddenly itching to trace the dents showing just above the top of his low-slung jeans, and I want nothing more than to peel those jeans off him an inch at a time, tasting every bit of him as I go. But that would be giving in to defeat, and I will not give in.

Dammit, I won’t.

I suck in a quick breath through my nose, clamping my lips resolutely shut as I raise my eyes defiantly to Murphy’s. His head dips ever so slightly as he smirks across the room at me. He’s reading my mind again.

God in Heaven, I need a drink. Or an escape route.

“I...um...need to...grab something from my bedroom. I’ll be right back,” I sputter, backing hastily towards the door to my possible sanctuary. 

“Aye, yer bedroom sounds like th’perfect place t’continue th’conversation,” Murphy purrs as he casually pursues me across the apartment.

I notice warily that Murphy is doing all the talking while Connor remains conspicuously quiet. I glance to where the light side of the Force was a minute ago only to find he’s vanished while I was distracted by Murphy’s strip tease. My pulse ratchets up, beating a staccato in my ears. I should’ve reached my bedroom door by now, and my hands stretch out behind me, groping for the handle. I know better than to take my eyes off Murphy, even for a second. My tongue darts out to dampen my parched lips, and my eyes widen as Murphy closes the distance between us.

My back hits something with a dull thud, something hot and hard that immediately grabs my wrists, sliding hands up my arms. I let out an alarmed squeak as Connor pulls me into my room, walking us backwards towards the bed. He laces my fingers together and locks them behind his head as he backs onto the mattress on his knees.

“Keep yer hands where I c’n feel ‘em, girl,” he growls into my ear, and I choke out a strangled assent as I follow him back until I’m sitting on the edge, leaning against his chest. He’s as bare from the waist up as Murphy, and the heat of him seeps into my skin through my shirt. Murphy steps into the room, closing the door and bringing the darkness with him. It’s almost the middle of the day, but my curtains are shut tight against the cold outside, so what little light there is in my bedroom is tinted a deep crimson. 

Connor sweeps my hair to the side, dragging his nose up the side of my neck as he inhales deeply.

“Ye want t’tell us what was makin’ ye blush so?” Murphy asks. His voice is dangerously soft, and I moan as a jolt of outright lust flattens me against Connor.

“I...I had...a dream...that night,” I stutter, breathless and anxious as Murphy drops to his knees in front of me. My fingers loosen as his hands slide from my knees maddeningly bit by bit up my legs, when Connor bites suddenly into the juncture of my neck and shoulder, shocking a pointed exclamation from me. 

“Keep ‘em tight,” he snarls, laving the sore spot with his tongue before I can react. I’m panting now, shallow breaths that are not very conducive to storytelling, but Murphy glances sharply up at me from the floor when I stop talking.

“Y’were saying?” Murphy asks as Connor’s fingers sweep feather light up my stomach, catching and carrying my shirt in their upward trajectory.

“Dreamed...that...you two...came here in the middle of the...night to...to apologize for being jerks at the diner.”

“Izzat all?” Connor’s question is punctuated by his deft removal of my shirt and bra, relieving my fingers from their position only to replace them when the offending garment is gone. Murphy continues his own upwards progress until he reaches the waistline of my pants, his fingers flirting along the edges, sending chills trickling down my spine. He slips his thumbs inside the waist of my slacks as well as my panties and peels both garments off. Chills spread over my entire body until I’m trembling with need.

“You two...apologized...really well?”

Murphy’s tongue tickles its way up my sternum while Connor attacks the corner of my jaw. I turn to Connor, catching his lips with mine just before he pulls back.

“Doesn’t tell us why ye smashed yer clock, lass. More t’de story?”

“Jesus, I...Murphy, please, can you please just—”

“Why’d ye smash th’clock, lass? Why’d ye blush so when Rocco brought it up?”

Connor’s hands slide down my belly and trace dizzying patterns across my skin even as Murphy scrapes his teeth down my collarbone. My head is swimming with overstimulation, and I’m starting to lose track of who is where and doing what. I lurch up a couple of inches, very badly needing Connor to keep moving south.

“Stupid...fucking clock...went off...before we could...finish, please, please finish!”

“Calm down, girl,” Murphy breathes against my shoulder before sinking back to his knees. “Roc said he’d be awhile; y’got plenty o’time t’tell us exactly how we apologized in yer dream. Seems t’me we might still owe ye some apologizin’ anyway. Aye, Con?”

“Dat we do, Murph,” he replies, his breath cooling the line of moisture he’s just traced down the edge of my ear. “We were right arses, an’ ye should tell us t’best way t’right our wrongs, lass.”

Oh, God, they want me to talk NOW? I can’t even see straight, much less think straight.

“Connor...was...God, can you please move your hands just...oooohhh, yes…”

“Lass,” Murphy’s voice still manages to come across as stern even though it’s currently muffled by the inside of my knee, “ye got t’focus. Dis is important information we’re needin’ from ye.”

“Can we...get more on the bed, please?” I gasp. “This position’s not...as...as good on my ribs.”

“Why dontcha tell us what position t’try, lass?” Connor suggests, prying my fingers from his hair and lowering my arms. I groan at the loss of his hands from much more pleasurable regions, but my ribs sigh in relief. 

“You were...lying back against my pillows,” I finally say when I’ve caught my breath. “I was straddling you.”

Connor smiles, brushing a kiss over my cheek, “We’ve been in dat position a t’ousand times b’fore, an’ I love dat ye still turn red as a rose when ye speak of it. But mayhap we could try a different way dat’s a little easier on yer leg an’ side?”

Connor slides further on to the bed, shucking his remaining clothing as he goes. He turns and stretches so he’s lying on his side with his back to the wall, propped up on one elbow. I start to roll over to crawl after him, but Murphy’s hands on my waist halt my movement. He pulls me closer, inch by inch toward the edge, his eyes devouring me as he drags me closer, until he’s got my knees over his shoulders and only my back rests on the bed itself.

I automatically reach back to grab the bedspread, and Connor catches my hands, drawing them over my head gently so as not to disturb my ribs. Connor deftly applies his teeth and tongue to the pads of my fingers as Murphy kisses his way deliberately up the top of my thigh.

“Murphy, can you--”

“We’re askin’ t’questions here, love. What happened next?” His words are punctuated by a series of quick, sharp nips to my lower belly, each one moving further down, and I can only be thankful that I finally took the time to shave yesterday morning before we went out. Connor squeezes my hands, urging me to breathe and relax.

“Murphy was...You...were behind me. You got the lube from my bedside table, and...Murphy, would you...I need you to--”

“Ye need me t’what, girl?” he asks, running his chin up the inside of my thigh. The light scruff ignites every nerve ending from my toes to my sternum, and I jerk against Connor’s hold, gasping Murphy’s name like a mantra. 

“So tense, girl,” Connor purrs next to my ear, holding my hands tight. “Calm yerself, wontcha? Only tryin’ t’tell ye how sorry we are.”

Oh, are they ever sorry…

“Murphy, I--” but my plea is cut off as he leans forward, his tongue running up the length of my slit before his lips fasten on my clitoris. My hips rise involuntarily against his mouth, and Murphy repeats his action until I’m a quivering, moaning mess. He stops for a moment, his eyes meeting mine across the plane of my torso, blue coals burning in the dim light.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous, ye are,” he murmurs. “Make s’more o’dose noises fer me, girl.” His tongue begins to move again, circling and plunging with perfect precision, and I am swirling along with it, sinking closer and closer, and so, so close--

“Murph, yer distracin’ our girl. She can’t get a word in ‘bout what we did next. Gotta give ‘er time t’think.”

Shut up, Connor!

But Murphy backs off, leaving me sobbing with tension, and rises from the floor while sliding me further onto the bed. Still holding my gaze, Murphy takes his time undoing his belt, opening his fly, and slowly sliding his jeans and boxers from his hips. Before he joins us on the bed, he turns, opening my nightstand drawer and removing my bottle of lube. Without breaking eye contact with me, Murphy tosses the container to Connor, who, of course, catches it deftly and gently tugs on my hips, guiding me until I’m stretched out, facing away from him.

“Ye want t’continue yer story now,” Connor says in my ear. My back is pressed firmly against his chest, and my nerves singing with overstimulation. I can’t help the breathy wail that escapes my throat as his fingers slide over my belly.

“Connor,” I strangle out, my voice shaking uncontrollably, “if you want...to leave this bedroom with all your parts intact...you...you will get me off now...before I have a chance to say anything else about that damned clock!”

“Only needed an invitation, lass,” he says, sinking smoothly into me from behind. I freeze against him, almost coming right there. Then his fingers move between my legs, catching my clit and rolling it exactly right. My head snaps back, smacking against his shoulder as my breath locks in my throat, every muscle in my body drawing taught before melting. Connor’s breath hitches, whistling softly through his teeth as I spasm around him, shaking and moaning as air finally reenters my lungs.

As I am floating blissfully in my paralyzed, post orgasmic state, Connor slides gently from me, and I hear the snap of my lube container opening. Before I have time to feel his absence, Murphy is in front of me, cupping my face and kissing me hard as he plunges deep inside me. I take him in with a low groan from the depths of my chest, my fingers twisting into his hair and locking him in place.

As he did last night, Murphy moves slowly and deliberately, but his strokes are hard now, his hip bones snapping against mine. I find myself flashing back to the first time we slept together, the first time he took me like this with these slow, punishing strokes. I sling my leg around his waist, holding him close as he grinds into me, and my lips leave his as my head lolls back against Connor’s shoulder again. 

As Murphy’s tongue dips into hollow at the base of my throat, Connor’s fingers ghost down the cleft of my ass, coming to rest on the tight ring of muscle there. His thumb, well-lubed in advance, presses gently at first, letting Murphy’s motion carry me back against his motionless hand. With every thrust, though, Connor presses a little harder. I whine greedily as his thumb gradually slips further inside, stretching me and urging me to open wider for him.

“Did th’apologizin’ go somethin’ along dese lines, lass?” Connor murmurs, his voice strained. “Or didja need me t’--”

“Yes!” I gasp, as Murphy hits a new depth with a particularly hard stroke. “Fuck, Connor, yes I need you to!”

Connor’s thumb is gone with Murphy’s next thrust, and he moves so the head of his cock rests against my ass as Murphy presses me back again. 

“Calm it down fer a minute, Murph. Let ‘er back easy,” Connor says.

Murphy curses, the tendons in his next stretched tight under my fingers, but he eases his efforts, lengthening his strokes and gentling his thrusts. Slowly, so slowly that I can feel every centimeter, Connor enters as I press back against him.

There’s a moment where I’m so utterly filled that my head spins, and if I weren’t already lying down, I would definitely need to. Then Connor’s fingers are brushing through my hair, Murphy’s fingers are massaging my ribs, and the two of them bring me back to earth while taking me higher than I’ve ever been.

Both of them speak to me, filthy promises and tender words, their voices soft and flowing and overlapping, urging me to twist or squeeze, praising everything about me from the heat of my lips to the curve of my throat to the tightness of my legs wrapped around Murphy’s waist. I lose track of where their hands are, where my hands are, hell, where we all are. I have no idea how long we twist together, grinding, slipping, and blazing hot. And I finally, finally, get out of my head and absolutely lose myself in them both.

They promised me as long as I want. 

I’ll take it.


	11. 11

Rocco returns much later that afternoon, and he and Connor and Murphy immediately head outside to light up while I heat up the take-out Rocco brought back with him. It could be my imagination playing tricks on me, but as the three of them troop out, I swear there's a look on Rocco's face like he's hiding something. It's gone before I can really process what I've seen. For just a second, though, I would've sworn it's the look he wears when he's done something for work that he can't talk about. But he didn't go to work today, as far as I know; I mean, do mobsters even work on Christmas day? Aren't they Catholic?

I shake my head at my foolishness. Must be my restless nights catching up with me.

We spend the rest of Christmas day hanging around my apartment, watching movies, talking, and generally doing nothing much of note. Connor goes insane over the stunt work in The Eiger Sanction, while Murphy eggs him on shamelessly, and Rocco and I just sit back, laughing at the pair of them. Murphy tells me they got a new blanket especially for me to keep at their place, one from a specialty camping store that promises to keep you warm even in below freezing temperatures, and I show my gratitude appropriately until Rocco starts complaining. Eventually, I fall asleep on the sofa between Connor and Murphy sometime in the middle of Tombstone, completely stuffed after a fantastic dinner of leftovers.

As the day has gone so well, and I've been so relaxed and content, the nightmare catches me completely off guard.

I'm in the alley again, pinned to the ground, and I'm freezing. I can't breathe, huge hands are crushing my throat, pressing the life from me, and the man is screaming down at me again. His words are incomprehensible, and all I can hear is snarling and roaring; his rotten fangs drip with blood and saliva, inches from my face, and his putrid breath fouls what little air I can pull in. Like all the worst dreams, the harder I try to move, the less I am able to. I want to scream, open my mouth to yell, but there's no air in my lungs to make any sound, and I thought I'd gotten out of the alley, I thought Connor and Murphy took me away, that I escaped, but we're passed the point where they should've shown up now, and I should be free, and I can't breathe, and-

"Wake up, girl!"

Strong hands hold me tightly, a body is pressed hard against me, and I panic, still suffocating, but now I can move, and I lash out, clawing and grappling as air finally enters my lungs only to leave immediately as I scream for help, for Connor or Murphy or anyone-

"Lass, it's me, it's Murphy! Ye gotta wake up! Yer home, ain't no one gonna hurt ye! Calm down, Grace, ye gotta listen t'me!"

Not in the alley, not under the wolf, not fighting, I'm home, oh God, oh God, Murphy, help me…

"Listen t'me, love, breathe for me. Stop thinkin' an' listen t'my voice. Come back t'me, just listen, just breathe and listen. 'M right here, yer here wit' me in yer apartment. Ain't nothin' tryin' t'hurt ye, yer safe. Come back, love, just breathe."

Murphy goes on like this until I stop hearing the words and force myself to focus on his voice, his arms, the warmth of his skin against mine, the scratch of his facial hair on my forehead, the rise and fall of his chest under my cheek, the hard jab of his hip bones against my inner thighs, his fingers pressing hard into my neck and waist.

When my breathing finally resumes something like normal, I cough and lift my head, trying to sit up.

"Ye need some water?" Murphy asks. I look up to find veiled, thinly controlled panic and worry etched into the lines of his face, and I think he's finally starting to see exactly how bad it was when the two of them were gone. I nod, sliding from his lap back to the sofa, leaning forward until my head is hanging between my knees. Murphy hesitates, not sure if he should leave me even long enough to fill a glass, but I wave him away to the kitchen as I try to keep my breathing steady and even.

The front door opens as Murphy is handing me the glass of water, and Rocco and Connor step inside, shaking snow off their coats and into the hallway. I catch a whiff of cigarette smoke, so at least I know why Murphy and I were alone.

"Snow's really startin' t'come down again," Connor says, turning back to us. He takes in my tear stained face and slumped posture and is immediately by my side, his freezing hands cupping my cheeks. "Y'alright? What happened? Nightmare?"

I nod miserably, ashamed that I'm still so affected weeks afterwards. I take a long swallow of water, my flesh crawling under everyone's stares. I feel out of place in my own skin, like everything's pressing in too tightly, and I shift under Connor's hands. Sensing my discomfort, he releases me but stays by my side.

"I just need a minute to-" But I don't know how to finish the sentence. I don't know what I need. My thoughts are scrambled, frantically whirring and bouncing off the inside of my head, and all I can think of to say is a question I've honestly been too scared to ask, even just to myself.

"What happened to them?"

Talk about an exchange of glances.

"I'm not asking for information on the Kennedy assassination. The assholes? From the alley? The inspiration for my nightmare? What happened? Is there something else you haven't told me?"

Rocco turns immediately away and heads for the kitchen, burying himself in the fridge. Connor looks down at his hands, not so much like he's nervous but more as if he's choosing his words carefully and wants to pace himself.

"Y'don't remember anyt'in', lass? Not th'beatin's Murph an' I gave out nor leavin' th'alley fer th'hospital?"

"I've tried," I admit. I finish off the water and set the empty glass on my coffee table, frowning at my trembling arms. "I've really tried, but it's a big blur mixed with a dose of things I know are my imagination fucking with me. I don't remember anything clearly after the guy threw me off his back and I hit whatever it was that got my ribs."

"We were in too much of a hurry t'get ye t'hospital t'take care o'dose fuckers as we shoulda," Murph says suddenly. He's sitting in the armchair, staring as the floor, but I can just make out the worried lines around his eyes and the tightness in his down-turned lips. "When dey had ye stable in th'hospital room an' said ye was outta danger, I came back, but th'fuckers were gone. Snow kept comin' down, got blown inta th'alley, so even deir fuckin' tracks were covered."

"And we never filed a police report or anything," I mutter. "Why didn't we do that?"

"Didja want t'talk t'th'cops, lass?" Connor asks, sighing. "Ye weren't in any shape t'do any talkin', an' what would th'fuckin' cops do anyway? Jus' let 'em right back out on t'street, even if dey could catch 'em in t'first place." There's no heat behind his words, and he's not trying to start an argument. At any rate, I'm not really inclined to disagree.

"So they're just out there, doing what they do, and getting the fuck away with it," I sum up morosely. My hands have finally stopped shaking, but despite having only just woken up, I am weary to my bones.

"Outta curiosity," Rocco says, suddenly plopping down on my other side and handing me an open beer, "what would you do if you saw 'em again? Like, walking down the street or something."

I glance at Connor and Murphy, who are both unashamedly staring at me as they wait for my response, and I think very carefully about my words before speaking. "I know what I would want to do, but I also know what I am capable of doing, and the two don't overlap. What I'm more concerned about is what if they see me? I mean, they were in the McGinty's neighborhood, which I tend to frequent rather...well, frequently. And they've seen my face. Up close. So...I mean, that's a thing to be worried about, right? Or am I being too cinematic?"

The room is quiet for a couple of minutes as everyone absorbs what I've just asked. It's Connor who finally breaks the silence.

"Gonna look inta findin' ye some self-defense classes first t'ing in th'morning'."

"What-" Murphy starts, but Connor cuts his eyes sharply at his brother, silencing his protest.

"Tis our girl's life at stake here, Murph, not yer fuckin' pride. Her safety's not a t'ing we c'n gamble on. She won't always be around us, needs t'know how t'take care o'herself. We fuckin' promised her, not twenty-four hours ago. Am I wrong?"

Murphy fumes wordlessly, and I can see his stubbornness and desire to be the one to protect me warring with his absolute need for me to be safe. Suddenly, he lets out a sigh and sags in the chair, his arms dropping to his legs as he shakes his head at himself.

"O'course yer right. M'sorry, lass, doin' dat stubborn shit again. We'll help ye find a somethin' t'suit ye, o'course we will."

The heavy atmosphere lifts a little, and Rocco deftly changes the subject. Thus, the rest of the evening passes. The boys effectively clean out my refrigerator of all leftovers for dinner, so I know grocery shopping will be in order tomorrow, but tonight I'm going to relax and do my best to distract myself from the nightmare.

Rocco crashes on the couch; I don't have the heart to send him home to Donna, not on Christmas. After making up the sofa for him and thanking him for his thoughtful present, I glance around my apartment, a wave of emotion washing over me as I take in the decorations again. As Christmases go, this is probably the best one I've ever had, nightmare notwithstanding. I wish Rocco goodnight and merry Christmas and step into my bedroom, shutting the door behind me.

Connor and Murphy are in their usual positions, with Murphy against the wall and Connor waiting on the edge of the bed to more easily let me climb between them. Both of them are awake, Connor leaning over to rest his elbows on his thighs and Murphy propped up against the wall with his legs drawn up to his chest, his arms dangling between his knees. Their eyes track me as I cross to the clothes hamper and strip off my sweatpants, dropping them in the hamper and leaving me in my t-shirt, underwear, and socks. I turn back to their silent stares, perplexed. They don't normally wait up for me like this.

"What's up guys," I ask cautiously. Connor holds out a hand to me, and I step forward to take it, expecting to be pounced on in some way. I'm more than a little surprised when he simply draws me closer and helps me climb onto the bed and settle between the two of them. I roll onto my back as they stretch out next to me, and I look from one of them to the other. Neither has yet to say a word, and I'm getting worried.

"You're starting to freak me out a little," I say quietly, and even I hear the rising anxiety clearly in my voice. Murphy shakes his head, a small smile tilting the corner of his mouth as his fingers brush lightly over my chin and down my throat. Connor pulls my comforter up over the three of us before scooting a little lower on the bed. He wraps his arms around my torso just below my breasts, settling his head in the bend between my neck and my shoulder, and I feel him shudder a little as his heat seeps into my chill skin. Startled, I reach up to stroke his hair with the arm he's resting on as Murphy mirrors his action on my other side, twining his own arms around my waist.

Well...okay. This is different.

"Merry Christmas, lass," Connor murmurs into my neck.

"We love ye," Murphy adds, placing a kiss on my collarbone.

"Is something wrong?" I ask, thoroughly baffled. This is not the norm for either of them. I know we've been a lot more open and affectionate the last few days, even for us, but this behavior from them is terribly disconcerting.

"Here wit'ye," Connor answers sleepily. "Couldn't be further from wrong if we tried."

"Wit'ye til yer done wit' us, lass," Murphy says, nuzzling his face into my hair. "Can't get rid of us now."

I'm left speechless, holding my two Irish asses as they fall asleep snugged against me, my arms wound tightly around their shoulders. I blink rapidly as the backs of my eyes sting. I don't want to cry right now. For one thing, my arms are pinned, and I'd have a hell of a time wiping my eyes or blowing my nose. My idiots.

I sigh contentedly and settle down more comfortably between them. I know that life isn't a fairy tale, and we most likely won't get a happily ever after, but I'll settle for a few happy chapter endings, and I think tonight is one of those. I close my eyes, drifting off.

And for the first time in over a month, I don't have a single dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an epilogue; I repeat, there is an epilogue. Stick around, because you don't want to miss it. Also, I need suggestions and ideas. Requests, if you will. The story after this one will carry us from New Year's right up until the first movie, so about two and a half months worth of time. Things you've wanted to see or have them do (please remember it's winter in Boston) that might have been too short or too silly or, hell, too serious for a full story. Thanks for sticking around this long. One more update, and soon, I promise.


	12. Epilogue

A week of hanging out with my guys, and I will admit to being very happy and very ready to go back to work. Jen’s come by a few times to catch me up on the projects and files I’d been working on; luckily, I chose a semi-slow time to get hurt when most of our clients were on vacation, so I don’t have too much to catch up on. And while I’ve been (mostly) in seventh heaven getting to spend so much time with Connor and Murphy, that much time in a row with them can start to be a bit of a strain. 

Plus, y’know, lack of sleep from frequent nighttime activities.

This is the first night I’ve been back to McGinty’s since I was hurt, and I am determined to enjoy myself. I’m also just as determined not to overdo the drinking, so while I am having fun, I’m making sure I keep track of exactly how much alcohol I’m consuming. Normally, Connor and Murphy are thoroughly amused when I try to pace myself, knowing how that almost always turns out, but tonight they are quieter and a lot more distracted than I would have thought, it being New Year’s Eve.

Come to think of it, they’ve been kind of distracted all week. A few more conversations in their foreign languages than they’ve recently been having, a bit more of a peaked interest and sudden, completely necessary smoke breaks when Rocco shows up…But I’m just so happy that everything is more or less back to normal that I don’t question.

Connor’s gone back up to the bar to fetch another round for him and Murphy, leaving me alone with the more brooding of the MacManus brothers. After my third failed attempt to get Murphy’s attention, I reach over the table and slap his arm hard enough for my hand to sting. He jumps, swearing and catching my hand before I can retract it.

“Fuck was dat for?” He’s startled, and he doesn’t appreciate it, but I’m irritated enough to not care much.

“For half-ignoring me the last five minutes I’ve been trying to get your attention!” I wrench my wrist from his grasp, rubbing it vigorously, and he has the grace to look mildly ashamed. “Geez, Murph, I know I’m oblivious sometimes, but I can tell something’s up with you two. Does it bother you so much to come here because of what happened with me? Is that what’s wrong?”

He shakes his head, reaching out tentatively for my wrist. Knowing the worst has passed, I let him take my hand and gently massage the sore area. “‘M sorry, lass, m’mind is on summat dat’s s’posed t’come t’head t’night, an’ I promise I’ll tell ye everythin’ soon. Real soon, b’fore th’evenin’s out.”

“You’d better,” I advise. “The last time I was promised an explanation, it took the three of the most miserable weeks of my life to deliver, and I’m not putting up with you two acting like this all night just to abandon me at the end of it.”

Instead of reacting to my obvious ribbing, Murphy stands and joins me on my side of the booth, never letting my hand loose. He pulls me close, folding me into his arms and squeezing for all he’s worth.

“Meant what we promised, an’ I’ll spend as long as it takes t’convince ye.”

“Whoa, Murph, I was teasing. I’m sorry; I’m okay, I swear.” Good grief, what is going on with these guys? 

Before I can follow that line of thinking any further, the area around the bar erupts in cheers, and Murphy and I look up to see Rocco walk in. He scans the room, spotting Connor at the bar and making a beeline for him. His face is tense and focused, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen my friend wear that expression before. He leans over, talking straight into Connor’s ear, maybe to be heard over the crowd, but then the two of them turn, looking straight at me for a long moment. I raise my eyebrows questioningly, but Connor shifts his gaze to Murphy and gives him a short, quick nod followed by a jerk of his head in the direction of the back of the building.

I turn to Murphy, set to ask him for an explanation, and find he’s already sliding out of the booth. He holds his hand out to me. 

“Got summat t’show ye out back. Need to warn ye, though, it ain’t gonna be pleasant or easy.”

“I…” I take his hand automatically, rising to stand next to him, and he searches my face as he waits for my reply.

“Do ye trust me, lass?”

It’s the last question I’m expecting, but I take my time thinking the answer over. Before this month, my answer would have been automatic. I would've answered without a thought, without any hesitation whatsoever, but now...

Now I take a long moment and really consider what Murphy is asking. Because it's not just him, it's both of them. If you trust one MacManus, you’re trusting both, because each trusts the other implicitly. Do I still trust Connor and Murphy after how they handled the first real disaster of our relationship? They left me when I needed them. Did they mean to abandon me like that? No, I don't think they meant to hurt me as badly as they did. But do I trust them after they could hurt me like they did in one of the worst ways possible without even trying to? They apologized (boy, did they), and they've definitely spent the time since trying to make up for it...

But do I still trust them the way I used to?

"Yes," I finally reply, my eyes remaining fixed on Murphy's. I watch the emotions rushing across his face, and the strongest one I see is relief. "I trust you, Murphy. Show me what's going on."

I glance at the clock as he leads me through the bar towards the back. It's four minutes until midnight. We pass the bathrooms, and I see Rocco and Connor disappear out the backdoor that leads to the alley behind McGinty's. I'm thoroughly confused, but I meant what I said. I trust my guys.

Murphy stops me just before the door, placing his hands on my shoulders and facing me square on.

"You're gonna see somethin' that ain't nice t'look at, Grace. Doin' this b'cause yer strong enough, an' yer a part of dis, an’ we like it or not. Take a breath an' steady yerself. ‘Tis going t’be hard."

I'm absolutely lost, but I do as he says then follow him through the door. As we turn and see Connor and Rocco, their backs to us, I see two men on their knees on the ground. The first one is a complete stranger; I have no idea who he is. The second, though...

I might not recognize him in the street in passing, but his face is twisted in a snarl of rage, and he has four nasty, puffy red streaks down one side of his face.

What big eyes you have, my dear.

I freeze, swallowing hard. Icy tendrils of panic creep down my spine, and my breath starts coming faster, in short, sharp bursts that cloud up into the frigid night and disappear. I concentrate hard on Murphy's hand on my arm, willing that warmth and strength back into my body, forcing my focus sharply on his presence. 

And then Murphy says one of the last things I would've ever expected.

"Ye remember Mary Callahan?"

"The woman you worked with that was mugged and beaten?” I’m startled into replying. “I visited her in the hospital and went to the party your plant threw for her when she finally got to come home. Yes, I remember her."

"So do they," Connor replies, his voice carefully neutral.

I start to ask what he means when it clicks. Two men jumping a lone woman late at night, beating her because she doesn't have enough money to satisfy them. That was the description Connor gave me back when Mary was attacked. And that's what happened to Carla, the girl I was trying to help.

I don't need Murphy's hand on my arm anymore to chase away the fear. The rage does that just fine on its own.

"Why did you bring them here?"

I don't blame all three of them for turning and looking at me right then. I've never heard that voice come out of my mouth, either. Calm, collected, and absolutely dead of all emotion.

"Well, we...er, dat is, figured ye'd want some say in what's t'be done," Connor offers, glancing at Murphy, eyebrows raised. I cock my head to the side, my eyes fixed on the kneeling men as I examine them. The stranger won't look at any of us, whimpering and cringing away. His hands are bound in front of him, and I can imagine his ankles probably are, as well. 

His companion is similarly bound, but he doesn't cower like his friend. This figures. He's the one with the nerve, the wolf that stalks out to lure the prey in. He's got to have something like a backbone. 

He looks me straight in the eyes, sneering, his scarred face daring me to say or do something to him.

"And you'll accept what I say as long as you think it's justified?"

Again, none of them expect my response, and I get some uneasy looks before Murphy cautiously answers, "Aye, lass. Ye...have thoughts on what ye want done?"

"They're going to the cops, no question about that." My tone hasn't changed, but Murphy takes a step back from whatever he sees on my face. "But before they go, we're going to make sure they can't do this to anyone else."

I crouch in front of the two men, just out of whatever reach they have at the moment. I stare at the cringing one until he finally meets my gaze. His eyes go wide, and he whispers, "Please, we're sorry, we're--”

Ignoring him, I turn to his friend and wait until he challengingly meets my eyes.

"Ever again," I say. He flinches, then tries to recover his sneer, but it's too late. I see real fear behind his swagger, and I decide he's right to feel that way. He should be afraid. He's not the one with the power in this situation. 

That's something everyone should be frightened of.

I look around the alley, finding what I need next to Doc's dumpster: a pile of bricks and rubble from an abandoned renovation project. I stand, crossing over and lifting the top brick from the pile.

"I need their hands on the ground. I don’t care how you get them there."

Rocco, Connor, and Murphy hesitate, but when I don’t say anything else, they move to lay the men out on the ground facedown. The cringing one lets out a pitiful sob but otherwise stays where he is. The wolf, on the other hand, thrashes about, cursing and flailing as best he can, and it takes Connor and Murphy both to hold him down.

I take a knee in front of the two men, kneeling between their outstretched hands. While Rocco’s able to hold his man’s arms with just his hands, Connor and Murphy each have a knee on the wolf’s arms to hold them in place.

“Look at me. Both of you.”

All eyes are on me now, and the cursing abruptly stops, assisted by Murphy’s fist.

“I don’t know you. I don’t care why you did what you did. Nothing can justify your choices. I can’t count on you learning a lesson or being ‘rehabilitated.’ So, what I’m left with now is how to make sure you don’t do anything like that again, basically by making sure that you can’t.”

Connor and Murphy’s captive starts thrashing again harder than ever, hoarsely yelling promises of what he’s going to do to me when he gets loose and what he should’ve done in the first place. I look him dead in the eye and reply, “Hold the fuck still, or you’ll see what else I can smash with this brick. You can walk out with ruined hands, or you can lose the right to be called a man, not that you deserve it. Your choice.”

To emphasize my point, I raise my hands up, the brick clutched lengthwise between them, and bring it smashing down on the hands of the man Rocco is holding down. He screams, a horrible keening sound that is somehow not heard inside. I turn back to the other man, ignoring the whimpering mess beside him and his bleeding, ruined hands.

“What’s it going to be?”

Silently, unable to look at me anymore, the man stretches his hands out as flat as he can on the pavement. I don’t wait for him to change his mind before I slam the brick home.

I stands, ignoring his agonized howls. “You understand what will happen if you try to retaliate or take me down with you when you talk to the police, yes?” I ask quietly. I know they both hear me, despite their sobs. All three of my guys are staring at me silently as if they’ve never seen me before. “You understand that after tonight you need to be gone and pretty much never heard from again, yes? That’s how this works.”

In the distance, fireworks go off in the direction of the harbor. It’s midnight. 

It’s a new year.

I don’t wait for a response from the filth on the ground. 

“Do you need me to do anything else?” I ask, looking from Connor to Murphy.

“I got a guy waitin’ in the car to help me drop these assholes off,” Rocco offers quietly, not quite able to meet my eyes. I nod, noting his reaction and putting it away to think about later. I can’t process it right now.

“I’m going back inside. It’s cold out here.”

Five minutes later, Connor and Murphy join me at our booth. I’m staring silently at the empty whiskey glass in front of me, doing my best to not think about anything at all and failing miserably. No one says a word for long enough that the knot of fear and anxiety in my throat nearly chokes me when I finally speak.

“Are we good?”

“Depends,” Connor says, watching me carefully. “Can ye live wit’ what ye did back dere? Or are ye gonna feel guilty ‘bout doin’ what needed t’be done?”

Murphy doesn’t speak, but his face mirrors Connor’s serious, expectant expression.

It’s a fair question. I just potentially ruined two men’s lives. Did they deserve it? Yes, no question. Was that decision for me to make? I don’t know, but I made it. 

Because someone had to.

“Yes, I can.”

Murphy and Connor exchange one of those looks again, sharing an entire conversation in one brief moment. And while it’s Murphy who lays his hand on mine, it’s Connor who holds my gaze, nodding seriously as he answers, “Aye, lass. We’re good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's going to be a little bit before the next story, but it is coming. I'm going to use the time to hopefully finish my non-related BDS/TWD crossover "Inhale, Exhale." What I need from you guys is this: the next story in this arc is going to be a compilation of bits that are too small to make their own full read, a la "Awkward Moments." It's going to cover the span of time from here (New Year's) to the first movie (St. Patrick's day). In other words, we're running out of time for non-movie storyline. Please message me or leave in the reviews something you've wanted to see with theses guys. I'll take every suggestion at least under consideration, and I'll write what I can. Thank you for sticking with this one; I know it's been a roller coaster and not my usual style for this group. If you enjoyed it, if you have ideas/requests, please let me know. Thanks.


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